


Arthur & Eames

by Lanyonn



Series: Arthur & Eames (Canonical) [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Arthur POV, Arthur's History, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Crimes & Criminals, Family, Friendship, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Novel, Novel Length, Organized Crime, Origin Story, POV First Person, Politics, Post-Inception, Pre-Inception, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, The 90s, Wordcount: 100.000-150.000, dream share development, dream share philosophies, dream share politics, occasional humor, psychological effects of dream share, why arthur fucks up a little in inception
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 70,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanyonn/pseuds/Lanyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Arthur’s story and it features Eames. In fact, if it wasn’t for Eames, Arthur might not have a story to tell at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I – A Short History of a Young Man from Los Angeles

**Act I – A Short History of a Young Man from Los Angeles**

 

_\--_

_Arthur returns home to a blinking phone._

_He is exhausted after a whole day of travelling. He had gone to Brazil for an extraction. The job had been simple enough – dig out some inflammatory state secrets from the subconscious of a schizophrenic ex-Cabinet Minister. Since the job had been commissioned by a member of the opposition party, he had to worry about the legal ramifications of the extraction. It had taken some fast and sharp work on his part to erase his trail and that of his architect (an overoptimistic young graduate from Chicago who was now one of Cobb’s interns). He still had to take a roundabout way from Fortaleza to Miami to Los Angeles to finally return home._

_Like most international dream share jobs that he had done lately, this one had also treaded the fine line between legal and illegal. Dream share, as a technology, was still in its developing stages. The visions it opened up were undoubtedly limitless but it still had more criminal applications than useful ones. Arthur himself had transferred over to the zone of ‘dream thieves’ and ‘corporate espionage’ a few years ago. The majority of users of dream share usually operated outside the bounds set by morality if not legality._

_Dream share, a US Military project –_ Project Somnacin _– had originally been only an American endeavour but because it rested massively on human experimentation and the skills of researchers developing it, there had been numerous international collaborations. A wider and more diverse application of the hypotheses had a positive feedback effect on the research. Hence, the countries which collaborated with the US Military had some semblance of regulations when it came to dream share. Except for the third world nations which were recruited to perform more dangerous experiments and resulted in greater liabilities –_ their _governments were deliberately bribed to keep them free of laws that might impede dream share experimentation while still enforcing those rules which would crack down on any competition. Nevertheless, they were a hotbed of dream crimes. If there is an easy supply of PASIV and Somnacin, there are dream criminals galore._

_But in the nations whose governments still had no involvement with the dream share industry or were still in the very preliminary stages of developing it, it was easier to perform extractions without the threat of imprisonment; countries like Brazil. It was the reason why he had accepted the job in the first place. He wasn’t like Cobb. He granted no favours to the military. They won’t protect him if he got himself into some shit. But on the bright side, they won’t have his head in case he fucks something up real bad, too. He just needed to run faster than they could catch him._

_In fact, since he had files and files of research in his hard drive which he had stolen not only from the US Military but from every other nation which had any kind of data on it, his position was even more precarious than Cobb’s. The crimes he committed were not just dream share oriented, they ran across multiple fronts including spying, illegally accessing restricted information and a number of petty things he had had to do in order to develop his intelligence. He needed to watch his own back._

_He ignores the red and blue lights twinkling obsessively to let him know that he has voicemail and walks over to the fridge, throwing his jacket on the couch and his tie on the kitchen table. He has forgotten to eat since he had been running on adrenaline all day. But now that he is safely home, reasonably certain that he hasn’t left behind anything which could incriminate him later, he feels so hungry that he reckons his ravenous stomach is going to end up eating itself._

_To his utter annoyance, the fridge is empty save for some bread furry with the growth of mould (_ despite _the fridge – what the fuck is wrong with his fridge?), some wilted sprigs of lettuce, a wrinkled take out bag from the Chinese place a couple of blocks away, and an inflated can of tuna that has been sitting there for months, if not for years already (Arthur is too afraid to even touch it anymore)._

_Arthur swears out loudly. He had definitely stocked up on groceries before the Brazilian job had come along._ Where the fuck did all the motherfucking food go _, he demands from his indifferently empty home._

_Fuck._

_He throws an irritated look at the phone still flashing away hysterically._

_Goddammit._

_He presses the button to check the five voicemails he has. He skips over the messages from Chris (a casual friend with benefits he’s seen on and off a couple of times), dutifully listens to the completely mundane message from his dad, and because he is Arthur, he hears the plus-two-seven in the beginning of the number of the final voicemail and instantly thinks,_ South Africa _._

_The last he checked, Eames was in South Africa. The number goes straight into his permanent memory._

_“Arthur,” speaks the well-remembered voice, “too bad I didn’t catch you, pet.” A few seconds of silence on Eames’ part and Arthur leans in closer to the phone holding his breath, straining not to miss any words. “Well, don’t call back on this number. It’s just a payphone.” Arthur doesn’t even dare to swallow. He can hear the sound of Eames breathing, and the traffic that must be somewhere nearby. “Need to get going now. Don’t worry your pretty head about the call.” He hesitates. “Don’t fuck over your life for him, Arthur. Take care of yourself, alright, darling?” More lingering pause before Eames hangs up the phone._

I miss you _, Arthur’s brain supplies unhelpfully, as if completing the message._

I miss you, too. I miss you so fucking bad.

_All his crabby hunger forgotten now, Arthur sits down on the chair, cradling the phone in his lap. He waits for some time, letting his memory play back the message to him before pressing one and listening to Eames’ message again._

_“Arthur, too bad I didn’t catch you, pet. Well, don’t call back on this number. It’s just a payphone. Need to get going now. Don’t worry your pretty head about the call. Don’t fuck over your life for him, Arthur. Take care of yourself, alright, darling?”_

_“Arthur, too bad I didn’t catch you, pet. Well, don’t call back this number. It’s just a payphone...”_

_“Arthur, too bad I didn’t catch you, pet...”_

_Arthur lifts up the receiver and holds it tightly with both hands, his insides aching, his heart galloping away in his chest, his throat constricted with emotions._

_“Eames,” he groans out, trembling with the need to feel Eames in his arms, run his fingers over his face, rub their naked skins together, and take his lips in endless kisses. There is always a simmering awareness at the back of his head which tells him how deeply he has it for Eames. But it is hopeless, isn’t it? What would he say to Eames, anyway?_

Eames, I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I miss you so bad. I wake up thinking of you every single day since we parted. I go to bed thinking about you. I’m sorry I’m a coward. I’m sorry I’m so fucking scared of you and all this you make me feel. I’m sorry it has been so long but please, please, I love you. I love you so fucking much, Eames, even now, even after all this while. You’ve ruined me for everyone else, Eames, for anything else. I want to lose myself with you. I want to have you so badly. I have it so, so bad for you, Eames.

_Arthur slams down the receiver and places the phone back on the table._

_He sits in the dark living room all night, staring at the length of light pouring in from the kitchen in a stretched quadrangle, licking the legs of the couch. His mind is helplessly fixated on Eames. He plays over their time together in Greece, thinks about everything good and bad that had transpired, thinks about the things in his life that had connected back to Eames after that. No matter how busy he got or how he tried to stop himself from thinking of Eames, something would come up that would make him pause and think of Eames._

_Arthur thinks about the call. Eames hadn’t sounded like he was in pain or even in any sort of hurry. He was a brilliant con artist but Arthur knew – he just_ knew _– that Eames wasn’t conning him, not on the only call he has made him after over two years of complete silence and separation. He knew Eames was in South Africa because of a job but he had no idea what it was all about. He had his own assignment to work on. Arthur knew the architect who was working with Eames – he could only hope that she wasn’t still so goddamn awful at her work – for Eames’ sake._

_At the first break of daylight, Arthur can’t hold it in anymore and calls the only person he can think of calling at five thirty in the morning. Cobb answers his call on the third ring._

_“Arthur? What’s wrong?”_

_Arthur rubs his eyes which are stinging from the lack of sleep. “Nothing’s wrong, Cobb. Listen, have you spoken to Eames recently?”_

_“Eames?” Arthur frowns as he hears the sound of muffled sobbing in the background. That isn’t Phillipa or James, who are both very vocal with their crying. Then that must be... Mal? Why is Mal crying at this unholy hour in the morning? “No, I haven’t had any word from him. Is he in trouble?” Cobb sounds like he is moving away from wherever Mal is._

_“No, no, he isn’t. Jesus, I’m so sorry to call at this time...”_

_“Arthur,” Cobb cuts him off, “Eames isn’t a regular thief, not like the rest of us. He comes from a dangerous place, Arthur, and what we think are mortal risks, he finds them to be amusing games. You didn’t see anything of what he is really like in Greece. Hell, you know him as Eames because I know him as Eames. Not everyone who knows him knows him by the same name. He is a dangerous man, Arthur. I know you’ve been managing bigger jobs on your own and I’m sorry we haven’t been able to work together...”_

_“Dom, I know things are rough at home for you,” interjects Arthur, feeling sick of the way Cobb talks about Eames and increasingly worried about Mal. “I’m not holding that against you. We don’t always have to work together.”_

_“...but that’s alright. I trust you to choose the right people, Arthur,” Dom continues as if Arthur hasn’t spoken. “Eames is_ not _the right people,” Dom says slowly, putting emphasis on every single word of his grammatically-challenged sentence. “He is only a man for desperate times. He is very charming and it is easy to fancy him,” (_ Dear Lord _, Arthur thinks,_ am I really having this conversation with Dom? _), “but at the end of the day, Eames will look out for no one except himself. He will drive a knife into your back if that’s what it takes. And if you make his enemies your enemies, you’ll ruin your life as you know it.”_

_“Dom,” Arthur says weakly once the man is done, “_ please _.”_

_“I just don’t want you to fuck things up for yourself, Arthur.”_

_It would be funny how Dom and Eames want the same thing for him, and how they think Arthur is going to ‘fuck things up for himself’ because of the other. It would be funny if it wasn’t five-thirty in the morning and Arthur was almost delirious from the lack of sleep and food, overwrought because of Eames’ impromptu voicemail, angry because Dom won’t shut up about Eames, and sick with worry over Mal._

_“I won’t, Dom. I hear you loud and clear. Is Mal okay?” Arthur asks forcefully. He is truly concerned although he is also angling to steer the conversation to something that is an actual problem here._

_Dom shuts up like a clam. “All marriages get a little rocky.” There is a loud wail – that is definitely James. “I got to get going, Arthur, James woke up. He has been running a temperature since last night.”_

_“If you need help...”_

_“I know, Arthur,” Dom says and hangs up. He never calls Arthur for help anymore, not since things got ‘rocky’ between him and Mal. He doesn’t know what that is about but they never invite him over anymore. The few times Arthur has dropped by without invitation, Dom had seemed blatantly vexed and eager to get him out of the house as soon as possible. Mal had made small talk to him the first few times and didn’t even come out to greet him afterwards._

_Arthur knows that there is more to it than ‘rocky marriage’. He trusts Dom will tell him about it in his own time, and he cannot force his way into his confidences just because it makes his head hurt thinking about them and not know what’s going on._

_Arthur fishes out a bottle from his pocket and swallows down an ibuprofen and an alprazolam on empty stomach and falls into bed._

_When a month later, Mal kills herself and finally, finally, Dom lets him know what had been wrong with her all along, Arthur hates himself for not pressing Dom to confide in him earlier. He didn’t know what he could have done to help when even Dom failed to cure her of her fatal idea. But he would have done something, anything. Together, Dom and he were invincible – they should have worked together to figure this one out._

_But Dom had remained tight-lipped about Mal’s condition until he had been forced to flee the country. And Arthur’s grief and guilt have made him determined to stick to Dom and make sure that his best friend, teacher and mentor would not meet the same end. Dom had no one except Arthur now that his family had been taken away from him._

_And Arthur, well, he had waited too long to call Eames back. Mal’s suicide decided his fate for him._

 

 

\--

 

 

I wonder what people think about the first thing when they wake up in the morning.

 

I’m talking about something more metaphysical than “Is it six already?” or “I need to pee” or “Fuck, where am I?” What is the one thought that dominates their minds when they are still not free from the clutches of sleep and are in the window period of transition between sleep and complete consciousness? You can’t lie about things to yourself at that time and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about something you would rather hold back.

 

I guess I’m interested in that because I don’t dream anymore. Overexposure to dream sharing results in a person being unable to dream naturally. I don’t have any use of non-Somnacin-induced dreams. Dreams are a realm where I must be able to exercise control. Dreams in natural sleep, like the ones I had before I stopped dreaming because of dream share, are not something I can control. My only moments of complete surrender are those few seconds of grogginess just after I have woken up from natural sleep.

 

People who dream naturally probably don’t find any significance in that bit of time – at least not much as I do. They have had hours of dreaming to enjoy the comfort of letting go of the control over their thoughts.

 

My brother, Broderick, has never had anything to do with dream share. The moment just after he wakes up isn’t an irrelevant entity to him though. He says that the first thing that comes to _his_ mind on waking up is wishing that he never had to share his food with anyone in the world, that he owned all the food in the world and could eat as much as he wanted without going broke. He always wakes up ferociously hungry, his body crying for food and those are the only thoughts in his mind during the time he stumbles out of bed.

 

I believe him.

 

He wolfs down a big breakfast right out of bed, even before brushing his teeth.

 

Broderick is a runner who has been regularly participating in marathons since he was sixteen and kids’ marathons even before that. He runs in the morning an hour after eating and then again in the evenings an hour before heading to bed. Rain, wind and snow do not bother him – he has a treadmill in his room in case the conditions outside get too antagonistic towards his passion. That is possibly why he has a voracious appetite. Running and eating food are the only two things which have ever genuinely interested him in life. He pretends that there are a lot more but there aren’t. He has problems making commitments to persons and things alike. I won’t say I have any such ‘problems’ myself but I’ve still only ever had dream share and Cobb which have remained the true constants in my life. There has never been anything more. And it is exactly the same number of interests as Broderick (although to my credit, one of them is an actual _human being_ ).

 

Fifteen years ago, if I had to answer this question, then I’m sure I would have drawn up a glaring blank. I did not really think much fifteen years ago when I was still a spotty teenager. In fact, I have never really been a thinking sort of man. I don’t know what mere thinking accomplishes. I’m more adept at doing something and then thinking about what else I could do on the basis of what I’ve already done. That is all the purpose thinking serves for me – connecting actions.

 

I don’t think more than I have to. I never have. I have also never felt the _need_ for thinking more than I must. Of course, thoughts and actions are intertwined but that is because actions need thoughts to propel them in certain directions. Unless a thought results in some sort of action, what is the need for it? What is the use for it? And if there is not a need or use for a thought, then I would rather stay blank than expend an effort on it.

 

Consequently, I’m the sort of guy who is excellent at following orders. I love it when someone else does the thinking because even the useful thinking comes with a lot of useless thinking. It is hard to segregate the two. I have to admit that people who engage in a lot of pointless thinking are the ones who are best at charting out plans which require useful thinking. Of course, they invariably need someone action-oriented like me to translate those plans to action. But the thing is if someone else is happy setting up the board, then you won’t find me complaining.

 

There is no harm in taking orders. That is how entire armies operate. That is how wars are won. Not just because of people who thought out the plans but because of the many, many people who decided it wasn’t their business to think but followed orders from people who were laying out the plans. There won’t be anything without the thought-free workers to materialise those plans.

 

It isn’t the most respected way of life but it is still mighty respectable.

 

Most importantly, I have always been comfortable with it. I don’t see anything wrong with it. People who are obsessed with thinking will always require action-oriented people to validate their thoughts and give it a concrete form. Because when you think a lot, there is only so much you can do. Hence, you always need help.

 

My brother and I were adopted by our biological father’s brother and his family has always been really kind and good to us. In fact, Marla and Hunter insist that we call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’. Broderick revolted at the idea. I didn’t see what was so wrong with it. They were our foster parents and they liked it when I addressed them as ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’. It was simple enough to me. Broderick thinks much more than I do and that makes things unnecessarily difficult for him. He always has issues with everything.

 

We don’t even remember our real parents. They died in a car crash. I don’t feel particularly upset or broken over it. I never knew them. I was barely six months old when that happened. Broderick was four, though and he insists that he remembers our biological parents and maybe he does. However, I’ve often found the stories he tells me to be inconsistent but if he says he does, then I don’t argue with him about it.

 

He also swears that he can feel our _real_ father watching over us. Now that has to be a load of bullshit. I was never the smartest guy in my class back in school but I’ve always been smart enough. I’m smart enough to know that this is just another one of Broderick’s issues. I’m smart enough to get all sorts of work done – and I’m proud of it, too. You’d be surprised how many people who think a lot don’t actually get any _real_ work done.

 

Thinking is really natural, intuitive and so people don’t feel that there is anything wrong with thinking too much. They don’t know when to stop – or that they can actually stop. For me, as long as I can remember, I’ve always known where to draw a line on the whole thinking process. Most people, I discovered, lack that ability. What I have is a gift of its own kind.

 

And as it turned out, I’m not the only one who thought of it like that.

 

My partner, Dom Cobb, has always considered it my most desirable quality and the only reason why we function together so well every time we work a job.

 

The word ‘partner’ needs more explanation here.

 

I first met Cobb when he was cruising at a gay bar downtown.

 

It was still the nineties and LA had its fair share of them. I’ve always known that I batted for the same team just as I’ve always known where to draw the line on useless thinking. I don’t even understand how the whole heterosexual thing works. How can a guy get it up without seeing another hard on and a nice sac? How do girls even orgasm when they don’t spurt out cum from their vaginas? What is the point of sex without orgasm? How do you even have sex with a partner who you cannot see coming?

 

Imagine fucking a guy, filling your condom with cum and then you see his dick and it is still floppy – that’s how it would feel like to me if I couldn’t see my partner climax: bizarre and too close to rape-y for comfort. Yeah, I know girls can orgasm too but I read in this woman’s magazine once about how a lot of women lied about climaxing when they hadn’t and I felt really awful. It is safer fucking a guy, where what you see is clue enough to what’s going on.

 

And they have an extra hole down there instead of a cock? How do they ever feel any kind of sexual pleasure without a cock? Yes, the vagina is the passageway for babies to be born but that just makes it even more difficult to put one’s penis into it, don’t you think? I attended all my horrendously uncomfortable Sex Ed classes and they explained how the vagina stretches out enough to let a baby pass through. I couldn’t look at another baby without seeing the crazy vagina diagrams for days. How do guys not think of a baby as soon as they see a vagina?

 

Don’t even get me talking about the ‘breasts’. I can’t get my head around how they go about having pieces of flesh dangling out from their body like that? How come guys don’t think ‘weird’ the instant they look at it? I thought they were weird the instant I looked at some in Broderick’s porn magazines. Sacs are okay. Sacs hang down _below_. Breasts are like really up front, defying gravity. That’s _not_ natural. How do women get used to it? And what in the world is supposed to be sexy about them? Babies _feed_ from them, for goodness’ sake! How on the earth does anyone put the tag of ‘sexy’ on an appendage used to feed babies? And homosexuals are supposed to be the perverts. Yeah, right.

 

I am not hetero-phobic though (is that a legitimate word?), far from it. I believe in peaceful coexistence and happiness for all. I don’t understand it, I’m obviously repulsed by some of it, but that doesn’t mean that I hate it or wish for it to stop existing. There are over six billion people out there or something. Broderick and I are brothers but we have a thousand differences. But Broderick is a good guy and I’m a good guy. That sort of logic applies to the whole world. So if the world thinks that the whole hetero-thing is fine, then that’s cool. To each his own, that’s what I say, as long as it isn’t really disgusting like rape or paedophilia. Some stuff is just not right and there are no two ways about it.

 

But I digress.

 

So I first met Cobb when he was cruising at a gay bar downtown.

 

I was sixteen and the hormones had me good. My voice had just started cracking but I didn’t have as much trouble with acne as some of the other guys. But then the hair on my body was not like it was supposed to be, I wasn’t putting on any muscle even if I worked out, didn’t even need to use a razor till I was twenty. I think it all channelled into my sex drive which was _big_. I could always watch more porn and fuck one more guy. However, I couldn’t tell which boys in school would smash my face if I touched their cock and which won’t.

 

But because I really needed something more than my right hand, I sucked off my PE coach for a fake ID (the girl who always sat next to me in the History class told me about it) and slipped into a gay bar. It was easier slipping into a gay bar than a regular bar with my fake and that was completely alright with me. Also, I had money. My foster dad was one of the most popular gynaecologists in LA and like I said, he was really as good as other people’s biological dads – better than most, from what I’ve seen. He was generous with my pocket money and for the rest of what I needed, I worked at a video store on weekends. I have this problem where I don’t really look my age – I look younger. It was worse when I was sixteen but if I insisted that I just had a baby face and flirted enough and slipped a twenty, then that was enough to get me into the club.

 

Once you are a regular at the bar, leave good tips once in a while and make sure everyone knows you aren’t an underage whore hustling for customers (that kind of thing would get the place shut down faster than all the devout Christians of the world), you don’t even have to flash your fake anymore.

 

Cobb was out cruising guys at my regular club, The Volcano, the night I met him. He looked nothing like most guys at the club. He looked regular, like me. If we weren’t at a gay bar, you couldn’t peg us down for homosexuals. I always wore a light Oxford shirt and dark cords to the bar. I thought of adding a tie but that would have marked me as a gay guy back then. So I settled for Ralph Lauren sweaters – Marla always bought me a few of those every Christmas. Or maybe you could peg me down for one despite my state of overdress because I was really hormonal and was checking out guys all the time. But you couldn’t peg Cobb as a gay guy. Why? Because he wasn’t gay, he wasn’t even bisexual.

 

At that time, Cobb had no lines marring his face. He was clean shaven and his hair was still a shiny golden and not the dark dull blonde it is now. He wore it a little long too; it was the style in vogue. He was not as built as he is now but he was the most charming I have ever known him to be. He was over six feet tall, had lovely baby blue eyes and he smiled a lot more back then. He had the attention of all men as soon as he stepped into the bar, yours truly notwithstanding.

 

I had had a couple of shots of vodka a beefy middle-aged guy had been buying me. I dug bigger, older guys who were a little rough around the edges but treated me nice. I had been planning to let him blow me in the alley and return the favour maybe but then Cobb caught my eye and those plans had to be cancelled. Mr-Married-Businessman-Having-A-Middle-Age-Crisis wasn’t too happy about it but I felt this insane attraction to Cobb when I first saw him and I just had to go up and talk to him. He was fazed by all the men coming up to him and he was trying hard to be gay but he kept flinching despite his best efforts. Then he saw me and I never really understood why but he came towards me just as I was walking up to him. For just a moment, I felt special, felt like I was his _type_.

 

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, his arm settling high over my back like he was talking to a girl in the fifties. And I knew with a sinking heart right there and then that he wasn’t a poof any more than my Dad or Broderick. I had blown a completely amiable lay for the sake of a hundred percent hetero boy. But I still had my curiosity. What was he doing here? And why had he picked me, of all people? I wasn’t wearing a tank top and had on no glitter except whatever Timmy (a guy who always greeted me by rubbing our cheeks together and then kissing my nose) had rubbed off on me.

 

He bought me a beer even though what I really wanted was a couple more vodka shots. I don’t even know why I told him I wanted a beer. I guess he was just making me nervous like that. I don’t even like beer. In fact, if there was any sort of alcohol I hated, it was beer. Anyway, we had a few drinks and he sat on the barstool next to me, keeping a proper distance and everything.

 

I had begun regretting ditching my blowjob for the night. He talked a lot and drank very slowly. Even if I wasn’t fond of beer, I wanted to guzzle it down quick but when my mug was half-empty, I noticed that he had barely had two sips and I slowed down. It was frustrating. He asked me how many times I had been here, what kinds of guys I liked. He waited till the bartender was at the other end and then asked me about my fake ID. I insisted I was twenty two but he just smiled at me. I began suspecting then he was someone with the law enforcement and that I was finally going to end up opening a criminal record in the LAPD’s books.

 

I excused myself on the pretext of needing a piss but he followed me there as well. There was a guy in glittering shorts blowing a guy in nothing but a tie and a top hat. Ultimately, it proved to be too much for Cobb – he looked like he was going to have a stroke.

 

It was turning out to be way worse than I had imagined it would and I finally grabbed hold of his arm and led him out of the club.

 

“So what’s your deal?” I asked him as we stood out in the windy night. It was going to rain. “What do you want?”

 

Cobb had nothing to say to that.  He was edgy and tried to give me money for cab saying that he needed to get back. I pretended to be offended even though I wasn’t and that flustered him so much that he ended up hastily shoving his wallet into the pocket of his sports coat.

 

It is always easier to steal wallets from coat pockets.

 

There was indeed a visiting card in his wallet. Mr Dominick Cobb, Department of Architecture, UCLA.

 

It wasn’t that difficult tracing him down after that although I was late getting to his office since I had a Math test that afternoon.

 

When I reached his office, his secretary told me to wait before running off for her tea break. It was as well. When I peered inside his door, Cobb lay on a recliner hooked to a PASIV. Of course, at that moment I had no idea what a PASIV was or what Cobb was doing. It was the first model of PASIV, bigger than the ones they have now and it made a low droning noise (they needed higher doses of Somnacin to drown out that noise, as well). Cobb had the sleeve on his left hand rolled back and of course, I could see the needle fixed to his arm quite clearly. I closed the door behind me, drew the blinds over the window on his door, helped myself to a Coke from his mini fridge, and sat down on the other empty recliner, waiting for him to wake up.

 

“Holy shit,” Cobb said as he woke up after ten minutes. “What the fucking hell are you doing here?”

 

“Watching you do whatever the fucking hell _you’re_ doing here,” I countered.

 

“Who the fuck let you in?” he snapped as he pulled the needle out of his vein and got busy packing up the device. He was decidedly less pretty when he was angry and rude. Whatever lingering attraction I had felt towards him from the previous night quickly evaporated as I talked to him in the daylight. It wasn’t just because he wasn’t gay. Even if he was, Cobb really wasn’t my type. I didn’t have much of a type back then but still. Now that I have a type, Cobb still doesn’t fit the parameters.

 

“I came to return your wallet,” I said as I pointed out the wallet I had placed on his desk. “You dropped it last night.”

 

“I _dropped_ it, did I?” Cobb was scowling at me and I was appalled that he checked the wallet to see if anything was missing. He even counted his money. Yeah, Cobb was never going to be my type.

 

But no matter how unattractive Cobb was to me as a regular guy, he had my curiosity piqued. First with that trip to a gay bar, then picking me up to chat with me, and finally this thing he had in his office room. I might not have been a thinking guy but shit, nothing like this had happened to me before. I wanted to know what was going on. I had a _right_ to know what was going on.

 

“Yeah, you dropped it,” I said stoutly and drank more of the Coke. “So why were you at the Volcano last night? And why did you pick me up?” With dudes like Dom Cobb, you have to be straight with them (no pun intended). You give them any opening, and they slither out through it like an eel.

 

“I didn’t pick you up,” he said morosely. See what I mean?

 

“Yeah you did,” I insisted. “I want to know why you picked me up – and you hung around even after you figured out that I was underage.”

 

Cobb threw up his hands in the air and uttered a string of curses. “Look, I was... curious,” he said finally, his face as sour as if he was sucking on fresh lemons. “But then I realised that it was... well, not the place for me, yeah. And that was it.”

 

“It doesn’t explain why you picked me up.”

 

The only reason Cobb and I became partners later was because Cobb probably resisted the urge to murder me right there and then. I could see it plainly on his face. And I’m the guy who needs to go to gay clubs because he cannot tell the fairies from straights in his school and neighbourhood.

 

“I wanted to... talk to a gay guy, okay?” he said at last, crossing his arms and scowling at me. “Get a perspective on... gay things. Compared to others, you seemed...” I could see him struggling to phrase the words in the least offensive manner possible and I knew he was telling the truth. I know what he meant. I wasn’t just the youngest-looking guy at Volcano. I was the only one who visited the place in a pair of regular pants and shirt with nothing kinky on me, not even an ear-piercing. Maybe my hair was a bit too long and needed a trim but that’s just because I kept forgetting to go to the barber’s. I didn’t even get it styled anywhere fancy.

 

“But you’re in the department of architecture,” I said, sparing him the pain of explaining what he meant. “What do you need such perspectives for?”

 

Cobb eyed the PASIV. I eyed the PASIV. Back in the day, the aluminium case had big bold ‘PASIV’ embossed on it on both sides. So by then I knew the thing was _called_ PASIV even though I didn’t know what it did right then.

 

Cobb was silent for a long while. His fuck-this-annoying-faggot frown had turned into a no-one-talk-the-professor-is-thinking frown. I knew when to keep my trap shut. There was an aura about him now and I was afraid to even sip from my can of Coke for the fear of disturbing his concentration.

 

“You are a frequenter at that gay place, right?” he asked, fixing me with that look which made my stomach do a little flip flop even though he was not gay and absolutely not my type.

 

“Yeah,” I said quickly. I was sitting straight now, my back ramrod straight.

 

Cobb pushed away from the table against which he had been leaning and went over to lock the door. Under any other circumstances, that would have turned me on like a bitch in heat. But it was just the effect Cobb had that I felt like we had separated ourselves from the masses and elevated into a space of greater things untouched by lowly filth like sexual desire.

 

Cobb sat down on his recliner and opened the PASIV.

 

It is an example of what kind of effect he used to have on me that I held out my arm without being told as he fixed a fresh needle to the IV line and held it up to insert it in my vein. I didn’t even ask him what it was. Of course, there was a safety contraption that would alert him if I was having an allergic reaction to the Somnacin but I took to dream sharing like a fish to water.

 

We woke up in the middle of a completely empty Volcano and he started doing a bizarre break and build of the place and remodelled it into Hasty Pie’s which was another gay bar. He explained stuff to me all along, bringing in his projections and explaining how they behave and why. The lesson which left the deepest impact on me was how to point a gun at my head so that I could kill myself with a single shot rather than stay paralyzed in pain.

 

“There is a technique to killing yourself,” were his exact words as he stood in front of me, showing me how to hold the gun properly. I couldn’t pull the trigger though. “It’s just a dream. You will wake up from this,” he said as he looked into my eyes and fired the gun for me.

 

It felt so fucking real that I thought I’d never want to go back in there again. But after I paced his room, yelling a random obscenity at him when he tried to calm me down, I decided I wanted to give it another try.

 

“We’ll take it slowly,” he said after we emerged out of a second round of dream sharing. I had shot myself awake this time. “You don’t want to dream too much too soon. Ease yourself into it slowly. If you’re good at it, I might have a job lined up for you.”

 

I was brilliant at it.

 

What Cobb had meant, when he had warned me to take it slowly, was that I’d turn into a nutcase who couldn’t tell dreams from reality anymore if I used the PASIV too much. But I wasn’t the kind of guy who thought more than I absolutely must. I didn’t keep wondering whether something was a dream or reality. _Trace back your thoughts_ , Cobb had told me, _if you don’t know how you got here, it is a dream_. It was simple enough for me to follow and worked quite well. You needed to know when to stop so that you won’t drive yourself crazy. This was my default setting.

 

Cobb kept subjecting me to psychological tests and once he was sure I wasn’t going to stop acing them any time soon, I got my first job in the world of Dream share.

 

I was not the dreamer – that was Cobb’s job, it would be easier since he was also the architect – but I did a fair enough job just populating the Volcano and being myself in the shared dream. The Mark was a man named Walter Bentley. He was liable to blurting out his secrets to pretty boys he was trying to seduce. Cobb was very clear that I should absolutely not let Bentley do anything sexual to me. The fact that he was engaging an underage boy to perform a dream share honey trap seemed perfectly alright to him. Not that I was complaining but that taught me a lot about how Cobb operates.

 

I didn’t mind my role in the job at all – in fact, I dug it. Bentley was big and not even paunchy around the middle. Maybe not washboard flat but whether he wanted me to fuck his taut ass or ride him like a cowboy, I’d have done it. He was rugged good-looking. But he was also embezzling money from his company and a come-hither look with a “What bad things have you been doing, Daddy?” got him boasting about how he was fooling his employer. I even got him to scribble the names of the accounts through which he was channelling the money on my stomach with a felt pen. Cobb stepped in right when he was about to pull down my pants (I don’t know why Cobb wanted to pull a knight in shining armour – didn’t he see how fucking hard I was?) and that was my first job.

 

It all felt surreal after it was over. Cobb handed me a filthy amount of money and sent me back home, telling me that I went overboard and he was never employing me again. I hadn’t kept to the script, risked myself when he had told me not to and I might have gotten more details out of Bentley than he ever hoped to get but he had a moral responsibility as long as I was a minor. I couldn’t pull shit like that.

 

I took my money but I told him to go stuff his morals up his ass because it needed some loosening. The dream sharing shit was fucking boring if all he was going to do with it was build houses and trick perverts into confessing their crimes.

 

I lasted exactly ten hours fifteen minutes before I was back at his office, asking for more. He didn’t even scowl at me even though we had parted on bitter terms. He looked like he had been expecting me, didn’t even antagonise me about how I had declared that I’d found dream share “boring”.

 

“I can’t give you jobs like this again,” he said. He had been far more traumatised seeing Bentley about to suck me off than anything else. Dream or not, I was always up for sex with an okay guy and I had just gotten frustrated when he had cockblocked me. “I’m never _taking_ jobs like this again. But I need help researching some things for a project I’m working on. I need you to go through those records and highlight all comparisons where the shooting skills of the participants have improved by more than thirty percent after dream run practices. Then run an analysis on which kind of practices yielded most improvement in shooting skills. It is all part of a new job. Can you do that?”

 

Could I do that? I could fucking rim his asshole if that’s what it took to get a bit of action from  the PASIV again although I don’t think he would appreciate it.

 

“But I get to be in on some PASIV action, too, right?” I demanded as I sat down at the smaller table in his room, neon yellow highlighter in hand.

 

“When I take on a... er... private job again, we’ll talk about it. This is all strictly research. Only I build in these dreams.”

 

“Cool,” I told him with a broad grin, completely unconcerned about missing my classes for the day. “Teach me how to build in dreams, then.”

 

Dom crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at me.

 

“Come on,” I coaxed him, “It will keep me motivated through the boring parts if you promise me something _really good_ at the end of the day.” I wanted to sound suggestive and leer at him but Cobb just never took me seriously unless I was talking business. I was an underage hormonal teenager when he took me under his wing and he never grew out of treating me that way.

 

“Alright,” he said grudgingly, “only if you finish all those files before eight in the evening today. And we have to set some rules. You can’t come and go in my office as you please. I don’t want the head of the department walking in on a middle school yippie using my PASIV machine.”

 

“A middle school _what_?” I demanded, scandalized. I’d even started pinning back my hair and wearing ties when I came to his office. What more did he want from me? I couldn’t grow taller out of nowhere. Hunter was tall and my dad had been as tall as him. I’d have my growth spurt later but back then, I was five foot five and it was all I could do to look more adult. “I’m in high school, for the record and I graduate in two years!”

 

Cobb continued as if he hadn’t heard me. It is a really annoying habit and one that I had to get used to because Cobb was obviously not changing his ways for me. “You don’t use the PASIV unless you have my express permission, do you get that?” he said, towering over me like a big bad thug. Too bad he looked like a really tall twink and nothing more.

 

“Uh huh,” I replied, putting on my glasses and started to work on the first file.

 

“If I find you...”

 

“I’m not stupid, Cobb,” I snapped, not looking at him and raising my voice a little to cut him off. Once he started, he never stopped unless you forced him to. “I don’t want you throwing me out of here for good. I’ll not get to use the PASIV if I fuck something up for you. So I won’t fuck things up for you. It’s basic logic. I learnt that in pre-school.”

 

He grumbled a little because he didn’t get to finish his menacing mentor routine but I meant what I said. If I wanted excitement, I went down to the Volcano or bought a new PlayStation game. Dream sharing was serious business and if I was ready to do days of grunt work for Cobb just for an hour of dream time, then it meant that I was serious about dream sharing.

 

Cobb had a florid imagination. He was always bursting at the seams with ideas. He was introduced to the PASIV by his professor, Stephen Miles, who was in UCLA as well. However, Cobb had grown bored of working on architectural patterns alone and had hence agreed when the US Military approached him to help with developing dream spaces for better training of soldiers. He upped his level of excitement even more by designing dreams which would extract information from another person’s subconscious.

 

At first, these ‘side jobs’ were commissioned privately by high level officials and were overlooked by the military because of the powers and positions of the people who wanted them done. As long as Cobb did a good enough job for the military, they turned a blind eye to whatever extra income he earned on the side. He had an endless supply of dream share tools, the latest version of PASIV and Somnacin compounds at his disposal and he used them to build and experiment and theorise and develop his talents further.

 

Cobb taught me almost everything I know about PASIV and dream sharing. He guided me about the latest research. I realised that I didn’t have much talent for dream architecture and designing but when it came to going through volumes of data and fixing the tedious details, I was a pro at it. Computers were evolving fast – people were discovering something new they could do with the computer every day. The best thing about the latest research tools was that a guy didn’t require a formal training to excel at it. You could evolve to be as good as you wanted just by working hard. It was all a matter of logic and patience – I had plenty of both. In addition to being smart, Cobb was a people’s person and had many contacts. He was able to put me in touch with some of the best technology experts he knew from places like CSUF and Carnegie.

 

Soon, I wasn’t just his ball boy but an actual partner. I helped him stay at the top of his game in any way he wanted – tracking marks, bringing him the latest research, sorting through the plethora of information, ordering his dinner – everything was good with me. I was learning a lot in the process. And I was developing skills I never knew I had.

 

But everything I did to develop my research skills was for Cobb and the PASIV. My focus was always dream sharing. I was going all out every single day just to be able to inject Somnacin in my veins and delve down in a world which had limitless potential for creation and destruction.

 

All new things that came afterwards, we learnt together. Dream share wasn’t as organised as computer technology. For one, it was so subjective that the findings from two similar experiments could be completely contradictory. Some people just couldn’t dream lucidly under Somnacin. Others were allergic to almost all varieties of its compounds. The human mind is extremely individual. Dream sharing was more art than science.  

 

By the time I was of legal drinking age, I had become much better at building in dreams. Not as good as him, though. Hardly anyone can hope to be as good as Dom Fucking Cobb. But he gave me pointers that put me among one of the best. Moreover, working on myriads of different projects with Cobb made me a dream share veteran even before I had bought my first shaver.

 

What I didn’t realise early on was that Dom wasn’t doing these things out of the kindness of his heart. He saw something in me that I hadn’t known about myself then. I wasn’t just up to fucking with marks and clients in Dream share (I changed that policy after hitting adulthood), but I was willing to do whatever it took, down to the last perfect detail so that the jobs would be a success. Dom could take on bigger and more complicated jobs because I’d do all the footwork. Whether he needed a flight radio transcript from a plane that had crashed in 1981 or wanted a detailed analysis of the species of liverworts in Michigan, I was game.

 

Broderick had enlisted in the military even before I had finished high school (Cobb won’t let me drop out – he always threatened to cut me off from the PASIV when I suggested it and it worked every time). My foster parents worried for me because I wasn’t going to college. I couldn’t tell them many details about my job even though everything we did back then was legal. But I was moving out soon and Cobb was annoying enough to hand me an equal share of money in all jobs even though he deserved greater cuts, so I could move out of my childhood home and live on my own early on in life.

 

Sometimes he needed to go off on clandestine missions for the military by himself and that was fine with me, too. If he thought I should know about those, he would have told me. Since he didn’t, I was happy tinkering with the PASIV on my own sometimes when he left it in my care. Later on, I would learn that not all of these secret military missions were what he said they were. Once Professor Miles returned to Paris, Cobb’s experimentations with dream share knew no bounds. He had long stopped caring about the ‘legality’ of the jobs but out of respect for Miles, he kept himself in line.

 

However, with Miles out of the picture, Cobb set off to work with people who had started engaging in illegal dream share activities long before. It was during this time that he first came across Eames. Cobb never took me along with him at this time. He always saw himself as a cross between my father and big brother (even though I already had both of those). The guilt from our first job together had stuck with him long enough that he didn’t want to involve me in any of the blatantly illegal jobs he carried out. But when we were doing something on the right side of law, he didn’t have anyone but me by his side.

 

Cobb’s mind was always whirring and storming with ideas and the more I helped him, the more he could work on. He needed someone who won’t question him, won’t argue over things he obviously knew better, wasn’t dumb enough to follow his truly insane orders but daring enough to jump in with him when he did take the plunge.

 

Dom had found his perfect partner in me even before he met Mallorie Miles, more popularly known as ‘Mal’.

 

Fucking Mal. Mal literally means evil and bad luck. I’m as much of a non-believer as the next guy but Mal gave me a funny feeling right from the start. Dom met her in Paris where he had flown over one time to meet Professor Miles. He always raved about how it was love at first sight. He returned from his French vacation all starry-eyed and with a girlfriend to boot.

 

Mal was as smart as Dom was, if not smarter. Her curiosity and attraction towards dream sharing was only rivalled by her feelings for Dom. Of course, since I was Dom’s only real friend, she took a bossy interest in me as well. She was intrusive about my sexuality and possessive about Cobb. Cobb was, of course, honest with her to a fault. Nevertheless, we had a tough time adjusting to each other because we had to share the same man with each other. I’d say that I had more right to be pissed off than she did because Dom and Mal were lovers and there was no way I could beat that. But Mal was insistent that I was the only flaw in her perfect lover.

 

In the end, she won, though. Cobb told me he was going to ask Mal to marry him.

 

Build a life with Mal, he said.

 

And it was okay, really. That is how the world of straight people operates. That is what the penises in vaginas and breasts are supposed to be about. Straight sex makes babies and babies make families. Straight people grind down that path over and over and I can’t imagine how they can live knowing that they are leading the exact same kind of lives the people before them did. But there you are. Takes all kinds to make the world – takes mostly their kind to make the world, in fact.

 

One would think that with my attachment to Cobb and all my initial animosity towards Mal over him, I would be sad the day they got married.

 

Nothing was further from truth. The days leading up to their marriage were hectic for no reason but they were some of the happiest days of my life. Mal and I formed a unique bond when we discovered our shared contempt for Cobb’s choices in everything from the wedding cake to the flowers and the location. He eventually gave up and told us that he was going to ‘sit this one out’. I took a break from my dream share centric life style and threw all my efforts into helping Mal create her dream wedding.

 

The more time I spent with her, the more I saw what Dom saw in her, why he must have fallen in love with her.

 

She was lovely.  

 

It would be hard to put into words why I felt that way. Of course, she was beautiful to look at and while I was primarily homosexual, I could appreciate beauty regardless of sex. She was the most beautiful woman I have befriended in my life. But it wasn’t just that. She was fiery and passionate and yet gentle and innocent like a child. She was an overwhelming bundle of contradictions and there was always so _much_ of her. And just when you thought that Mallorie Miles was all about herself, she’d surprise you with how closely she had observed you and siphoned out your secrets without your knowledge.

 

There was no one quite like her. You didn’t have to be in love with her to be mesmerized by her. Even if I was straight, I’d probably not have fallen for Mal like Dom did. However, I’d still have formed that quirky and beautiful friendship that we had for a while.

 

Broderick got posted in the Iraq War the day Dom married Mal. I couldn’t be as happy that day as I had wanted to, being Dom’s best man and all. Over the years, I had grown further and further apart from Broderick but the thought of actually losing him had never occurred to me even though I knew he was a soldier now. I never spoke about it to anyone and it was a bittersweet day for me, held in contrast against the blissful days that had led up to it.

 

The thing is, while Dom was off playing house with Mal, it made me feel funny at times as well. I loved the gay bars. I loved my casual hook ups. I would see Dom and Mal Cobb in love from up close almost every other day and I’d still not understand the point of fucking the same person over and over after you have fucked them every which way you can. I didn’t understand what made them want to be with each other so much. The word ‘love’ was like ‘God’ or ‘ghosts’ to me. If it were me, I’d get bored of sticking to the same person for so long and I don’t see the point of staying bored when you can choose to _not_ be bored. Dates made me terribly uncomfortable. Not that I thought that there is anything wrong with two blokes having a candlelight dinner in an Italian restaurant and making doe eyes at each other. It was just not my thing.

 

Then again, Dom was closing in on thirty while I was freshly twenty-three.

 

Sometimes, Dom would decide that he needed a guys’ night out even though his best guy friend (who was me, of course) had a completely different definition for that kind of outing. He would wax poetic about Mal and his new baby, Phillipa. It would take quite a lot of vodka shots to settle the unease it would bubble up inside me (he no longer made me nervous enough to order a beer or God forbid, a cocktail). Dom Cobb still meant the world to me. Realising that we were complete opposites in our personal ideals and lives was disquieting to me.

 

However, we were fundamentally different kind of people, I told myself. Dom Cobb was a thinking kind of guy. He imagined things. He had expectations from future. When I was out drinking with him, my only expectation was that he won’t get so drunk I’d have to call Mal. I loved her now but she was terrible with her cold fury when Dom drank himself sick. She insisted that I encouraged him.

 

Cobb restricted his dream share adventures to exploration with Mal after he got married and I was left to pursue my career on my own for a while. I stuck to the routine civilian jobs of the sort I had taken up with Cobb before. Sometimes, I would fly over to Canada or Europe when someone wanted Cobb’s services but learnt that he had retired – he would recommend me instead and more often than not, people accepted his suggestion. Dream share wasn’t exactly bursting with skilled extractors.

 

I knew that the dream share practices of my kind were just the tip of the iceberg. There was a dark criminal submerged portion which probably formed over ninety percent of the dream share activities going on in the world right then. We didn’t talk about it much but Dom would casually mention someone who was reputedly on the darker side and I got curious. Now and then, I’d take on a job with someone which I couldn’t mention to anyone else afterwards but I still counted myself as one of the ‘cleaner’ ones, the ones who stayed ‘within the lines’. I made good money doing that. Why would I risk my life without reason?

 

A year later, Broderick returned from the war with half his right hand and his right leg below the knee amputated. It was one of the most jarring things I have seen in my life. He had grown moodier than he was before and it was understandable. He was terse towards Hunter and Marla. I wasn’t the most empathic person around him but he let me sit around his hospital room and drive him to and from the rehabilitation because he had broken up with his girlfriend after returning from the war wounded. I hadn’t been called upon to take on any serious familial duties before but it was easier than expected because neither of us forced conversation.

 

I had lost touch with the Cobbs for a few months, concentrating on Broderick and on a couple of jobs I’d taken in the States itself. In between, I’d crash out at the Volcano and I was beginning to think that this was the end of Dom Cobb’s role in my life.

 

But just when I was giving up on ever playing Cobb’s Point Man again, Cobb took on a job.

 

Mal was pregnant with James and couldn’t be loaded up with Somnacin or she would definitely have figured into the whole thing somehow. She didn’t want a hand in it if she wasn’t going to be a part of the team going under. Moreover, Dom was really adamant about keeping Mal ‘safe’ and away from the job. Broderick had begun easing up to his leg and fingers prostheses and he was keen on spending some time away from me to explore how well he could survive on his own with his new body parts.

 

Cobb did not really come clear about how the job was entirely illegal till we were on the plane to Athens. Not that I minded because we had taken on dubious extractions before but it would have been nice to have some warning before I boarded the plane. Just because we didn’t need a visa to roam around in Greece, did not mean that I was willing to jump on board for jobs that could go horribly wrong any time. I didn’t press him about it though. We would be landing in Greece soon enough and I would know what I need to know then.

 

And that is where I first met Eames – in Athens, Greece.

 

My story isn’t _all_ about Eames but I can say with a foreboding surety that it won’t exist at all if it wasn’t for Eames. He goes by that mononym ‘Eames’ as if he is some sort of rock star who is too cool to have two names. One couldn’t even tell if it is his first name or last name. If you knew more than most people, you would think of a bloody _chair_ when you heard his name. How was that supposed to be cool? But no matter what he pretended to be, the reality was that he had two names and even an unofficial middle name.

 

And if it wasn’t for Eames, I would still wake up at six in the morning with no real thoughts to bother me. Maybe I would wish that I could sleep a bit more if I had gone to bed late the previous night. Maybe I’d think how my bed partner’s breath stank and I really needed to get out of whatever motel I was in and go back home. But it won’t be any more philosophical or metaphysical than that. I would still have my gift of taming all useless thoughts into a submission of non-existence at all times.

 

But Mal was pregnant with the second kid and Dom cared too much for Mal to have her tag along on an illegal job anyway. _I_ cared too much for Mal to see her go anywhere near dream share while she was pregnant. In fact, I’d rather that Dom didn’t bring Mal anywhere close to a job that could go wrong six ways from Sunday. Plus, like I said, I was Dom Cobb’s partner before Mal even figured into his life. Old habits die hard. Dom was too used to having me around. And I bet Mal won’t know what he needed on a job as good as I did. I had come to love Mal but Dom mattered much more to me, he always would.

 

And so it was that after a sweaty cab ride from the airport to our hotel, tired and jetlagged and feeling like I was absorbing Cobb’s grumpiness as well, I first met Victor “Vicki” Eames. Lounging by the hotel pool, decked in obscenely tight electric blue swimming trunks and a straw hat, his ripping upper body adorned with tattoos, he waved us over.

 

I wanted nothing more than to throw up and go to bed (that’s how jetlag affects me). However, Cobb’s scowls had cleared. He insisted we needed to have our little meet and greet first and made a beeline for Eames. The last time I had seen him so eager to meet someone was Mal’s obstetrician because they were going to learn their first baby’s sex. I couldn’t have misread Cobb’s sexuality for ten years, could I? Did his tastes run to beefy tattooed men who sipped martini? No wonder he had never had eyes for me. Not that he is my type either.

 

Cobb and Eames greeted each other like old friends. I was momentarily distracted from the churning of my stomach which was making me hunt for the nearest toilet where I could hurl its contents. We had never worked with him before – at least I hadn’t. I recalled that Cobb did go out on his own many times so maybe that was where he had met Eames. However, Eames didn’t look like someone who sat in a lab running Somnacin experiments. His upper body was inked a lot. Creative? He was probably an architect as well. But Cobb was a good enough architect, why did we need this man on our team?

 

“ _Arthur_ ,” the way he glossed over the r’s in my name confirmed that he was speaking in a British accent. The Greeks didn’t speak anything like that. “It is good to finally meet you. Dom speaks pretty highly of you.”

 

That startled me.

 

“I – yes, hi,” I wasn’t terribly clever when startled. Dom spoke about me to people I didn’t even know?

 

“Would you like a martini? A piña colada, perhaps?” he pressed as Cobb proceeded to make himself comfortable on one of the deck chairs as if he hadn’t just spent the whole cab ride grumbling about how much he needed quiet and ibuprofen and sleep. I sat uneasily on the other side of Eames, having wild thoughts about vomiting into the pool and drowning in it afterwards.

 

When Eames’ asked the question, my stomach convulsed at the prospect of something going in rather than being thrown out.

 

I ended up ordering a beer. But before the waiter could get that for me, I had to run to a toilet and empty out my stomach. It wasn’t going to stand any of my nonsense anymore. When it finally settled, content, and I walked out of the stall to wash my face and mouth, I found Eames lounging against the granite sink counter just as casually as he had been sipping his cocktail on the pool chair.

 

“Alright there, Arthur?” he asked, eyeing me with nothing like concern and a lot like lasciviousness. “A rest is in order, innit? Want me to show you up to your room?” He leered at me.

 

Now I’m not the most subtle guy in the world. In fact, I have never even understood the concept of subtlety where sexual dealings are concerned. You want to fuck someone or you don’t want to fuck someone. Why would anyone be in two minds about it? Why would anyone _not_ want to be clear when they want to fuck someone? So sometimes people get shot down. Big deal. There are always plenty of fish in the sea – queer or straight.

 

So it made absolutely no sense why I scowled when Eames came on to me. He was about the same height that I was and I like that in a man. Anyone taller or shorter than me makes me slightly uncomfortable. He was sturdily built and ripped with tight muscles. He was definitely older than me, thirty five? Definitely over thirty. In fact, if he decided to shave off all that stubble, he might even surprise me by being the same age that I was. But I liked stubble. I liked hair on men. I would always pick a guy who was creative with the hair on his face over a clean-shaven bloke. His body hair was a light brown but his skin didn’t burn and was sporting a healthy tan.

 

If I wasn’t so busy glowering at him, I might even say he was very much my type. Right down to the fact that he had boldly followed me to the washroom with no other intention than for us to fuck. Straightforward, well hung (the electric blue of his trunks did nothing to deter my interest in his sizeable bulge) and I couldn’t help pulling a bunch of the tissue papers viciously from the holder and dabbing at my face with it.

 

“No thanks, Mr Eames,” I told him, my waistcoat feeling too tight and constricting. I didn’t think I sounded too severe, at least I didn’t mean to. I have no idea how I sounded in the end. “I think I better take some pills and rest. The jetlag did not mix well with the airplane food.” Just in case I did come out too obnoxious, I wanted to soften it up with excuses. Why was I making excuses?

 

My normal course of action would have been to grab him by his trunks and pull him into a stall where I would then proceed to suck the hell out of his cock or fuck his tight, tight ass or have him do those to me – I wasn’t picky with men who looked liked they had walked out of Freshmen or Blueboy.

 

Eames ran a tongue deliberately over his lips. I changed my mind. I wanted to pull him into a stall and fuck his face till he split a lip. And _then_ I’d come hard in his mouth and watch my jizz dribble down his fat lips. I was thinking that right there and then as I pulled off more rolls of paper towels and wiped at my face and neck. I was sweating hard.

 

“I think you are a little overdressed for the weather, Arthur,” Eames said, traces of actual apprehension mixed with his flirting now. Still, he eyed my clothes as if he was just a breath away from tearing them to shreds.

 

I lost my nerve.

 

I don’t know what I said afterwards but I pushed past him and almost ran up two flights of stairs of the hotel before I realised I had no idea what room I was booked in. I was sure Eames hadn’t been expecting that I would run away or he would have stopped me. I might have been imagining dragging him into the stall and fucking his face and ass. But he had definitely been ready to do the same. Suddenly, the world had turned upside down – I was the guy with useless thoughts while Eames had been getting ready for his role as Action Man.

 

And while I might have whined about having to suck him off before I got to have those thick lips around my cock, I would have come just as hard with my face between those muscled thighs. I knew it. And I knew I never hesitated to take what was offered so blatantly. I had never fucked people on jobs before but that was because people on jobs had been Cobb and some straight guy or Cobb and a woman. I liked the occasional flirting with a friendly guy or a woman to ease the tension from the job but I knew that it won’t ever go to full blown fucking. There had never been an opportunity.

 

Was I the kind who turned prude at the prospect of fucking a colleague? Was that why I had never been able to tell which of the boys back at school would have let me suck their cock and who would have punched my face if I went anywhere near their dong?

 

Or maybe it was because Eames knew who I was but I had no fucking idea about him. Cobb never talked to me about people who did not know Cobb talked to me about them. I would have remembered if he had mentioned Eames. I have never known anyone by the name of Eames – not till then, not since then. Eames is the only Eames I have ever known.

 

Just after midnight, I woke up sweating as I speculated that Cobb’s ideals of domestic bliss were rubbing off on me. At the young age of twenty five, I had already been brainwashed into bartering my happy sexually promiscuous life for one of caution and care where I would only gift my virtue to a worthy mate. I think my heart almost stopped as I thought of that. And indeed, I would rather drop dead than seek to turn my life into the gay version of Dom and Mal Cobb.

 

I tossed and turned in the bed, unable to sleep even though my stomach had quietened down. Then I realised what I was doing. I was thinking _useless_ thoughts that would lead nowhere and would only disrupt life. What did it matter why I didn’t fuck Eames back in the bathroom? I didn’t fuck him because I was busy thinking about fucking him and getting worked up over it. This is exactly what is wrong with thinking more than you absolutely must. If my brain wasn’t in a stupid overdrive, I’d have the jetlag and grouchiness fucked out of my system by now and I would be beautifully asleep, ready for a fresh day of work.

 

But as things were, I hadn’t had anything fucked out of my system and I was horribly tired but couldn’t sleep. When it was morning, I eventually gave up and took a quick shower. I thought about what Eames had said to me about being overdressed. It made me hard and I jerked off to the thoughts of being undressed by Eames and then had to get under the shower again. I tried dressing down in just a shirt and trousers but again, I thought about Eames’ keen blue-green eyes raking over me and I went back from the elevator to my room to wear a waistcoat. It wasn’t as hot as Eames made it sound. It was just a lot more humid than I had anticipated for this time of the year. But my shirt was white and a comforting cotton blend so I thought I could survive.

 

I was still sweating like a pig when I finally made it down for breakfast where Cobb and Eames were already seated at a table with a grey-haired bespectacled man who I assumed was our client.

 

“Darling,” Eames said even before I had pulled out a chair, “you are much too overdressed for the weather.”

 

I looked pointedly at his Hawaiian shirt and red shorts. His thighs were to die for.

 

“Mr Eames is right,” the old man said as he blew out some cigarette smoke. I hate people who smoke at breakfast. I hate people who smoke while eating. Nothing spoils the taste of food like the smell of tobacco.

 

Cobb narrowed his eyes at me. “You look like shit, Arthur. You went to bed early, didn’t you? I think you slept for over twelve hours.” Then he thought of something and looked hard at Eames.

 

“I’m going to go change,” I announced before Eames could take the bait and get in another word, and headed back upstairs.

 

This time I returned in a short sleeved cotton shirt and light trousers. I had not packed any sort of shorts. Even if I had, I had no intention of waltzing around Eames in such attire. I realised with a start I was thinking about Eames while the old man was talking business. I spent a good while staring at Eames’ lips and thinking about why the hell had I refused an offer to shove my dick between them. What the fuck was the old man saying? What the fucking fuck was wrong with me?

 

“You will definitely need a forger for that,” Eames was saying, looking like a smug bastard. Now I paid attention.

 

“Wait a minute, _forger_?” I looked at Cobb who glanced at the old man. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one at the table who had no idea what a forger was. The old man looked perplexed as well. Granted that he had much more idea about what was going on as compared to me but it was still comforting to know I wasn’t the only one out of his depth here.

 

Holy hell, had that ever happened on a job before? Had I ever been out of depth? I didn’t have much to do in the initial stage of planning out a broad outline of how things were going to be. That was Cobb’s job. Once he had an idea about what needed to be done, it was my duty to make things possible. But I always paid attention to what Cobb thought. I didn’t stare at random men wondering if they would be up for a session of sixty nine.

 

“If you need Eliopoulos to start talking about his will, then you need to put his son there in front of him,” Eames said. “We can’t enter into a shared dream with Eliopoulos The Senile _and_ his son. It will be hard enough setting up shop at the old age home and getting the old man into the dream. There is no way we can up the risks by dragging his son into it as well. Moreover, if his son enters the dream space with his own subconscious, we cannot predict how he will act. No, we need someone to forge Eliopoulos Junior and ask his father the right questions so that he hands us the will.”

 

“ _Forge_ ,” I said before I could stop myself. “What do you mean ‘forge’?” Those were the first real words I had spoken to Eames since I had come down for the breakfast that morning. Given that all this while I had been thinking about him, I deserved a pay raise for not blurting out something completely inappropriate like “ _Can you get down between my knees? I need you to suck off my cock right now_ ”.

 

“Forge, darling,” Eames said, fixing all his attention on me and making me hot under my collar, “is when a dreamer takes on the physical form of another person. My specialty in dream share is forging. I will need to study Eliopoulos Junior, of course, but I will be able to forge him easily enough. His mannerisms are easy to emulate.”

 

“I don’t get it,” I said. I think I stuttered a little because Eames was looking at me as if we were the only two people in the world. “How can you be someone else in a dream? You are... you.”

 

“Would you like a demonstration, pet?” Eames licked his lower lip and arched a thick brow. His forehead creased into lines and I was disconcerted to find that unbearably sexy. When was the last time I had found a forehead sexy? Foreheads had never ever figured into sex for me before. I could hear blood pounding in my ears. What in God’s name was happening to me? Did I catch some strange virus while crossing the country? But I had had all my vaccines on schedule. Maybe it was a really awful fungus. They hadn’t given me any vaccines for fungus. I don’t think anti fungal vaccines even existed – someone needs to look into that right now.

 

“We can get down to demonstrations later,” Cobb cut in sharply. “Forging is a rare skill in dream share, Mr Papadakis. But fortunately, Eames here is an excellent Forger – the best in the business in fact.”

 

The best in the business! And I had never even heard of him. No wonder Cobb knew him given that he was the best in the business. But how asinine it was of him to know about it but never mention it to me? I was hurt. What else had he been hiding from me all these years? We were partners. Partners were supposed to share things like these.

 

I felt angry at Eames. Everything that Cobb had hidden from me all these years seemed connected to him somehow. I wanted to grab him by his hair and slam him face down into the mattress as I fucked his ass, not letting him come till he begged me for mercy.

 

 _Whoa, back up there_. Talk about taking giant leaps.

 

Eames continued leering at me as Cobb discussed more details with the old man. I do not know how I survived that day and the day after with Eames constantly dropping innuendos and coming on to me every chance he could. He seemed completely unconcerned that we had Cobb and Papadakis for company. I am quite sure that we could have got on right there and then in front of them if I hadn’t kept stubbornly ignoring his flirtations.

 

I accosted Cobb in his room later that day.

 

“We are going into the mind of a man who has Alzheimer’s,” I said accusingly. Cobb was lounging on the bed, holding a copy of Times in his hand.

 

“I told you, Arthur, we would be running some risks here. But it shouldn’t be too difficult. If the mark has Alzheimer’s, it won’t be a simple case of going in and tricking them into giving up their secrets. We will need to have a different approach. We will need to recreate memories, people even. Eames is the only one who has experience working with decimated minds.”

 

Well, at least Cobb seemed completely unrepentant about extracting from an old invalid. And that explained Eames’ presence better than the fact that he was here because he had some fancy dream share skills.

 

“Have you worked with Eames before?”

 

Cobb stubbornly turned a page of the Times magazine he was pretending to read. “There was a job. He’s a very good extractor.”

 

“A military job?” I asked snidely. Of course, I hadn’t been fooled into believing that all his solo missions were exclusively for the service of the great American nation. This revelation just confirmed it for me. I hadn’t had any problem with that, though. It was just the whole Eames-ness in the air which was getting to me.

 

Cobb squinted at an article in the magazine as if he was trying to decipher hieroglyphics on Egyptian scrolls. “Of course not,” he said to the page in front of him.

 

“But Eames is here because he is... _forging_ , isn’t he?” I persisted, determined to get everything out of Cobb.

 

Cobb turned another page. He was reading it pretty fast now.

 

“Eames is... _peculiar_. He is not in dream share just for the money or the technology. He is ex-military. He is a con artist and a thief even outside of dream share. He has quite a few tricks up his sleeve. It is good to have him on jobs where we have no idea what to expect.”

 

‘Ex-military’ got my hackles up against Eames even more them before given how Broderick was now after his stint in the military. Broderick had left home and joined the military the first chance he got and now he was little more than a shell of his former self. I respected the military and I respected the Vets but I had no personal happy associations with it, rather to the contrary. Maybe I had guessed the ex-military part on instinct and so, subconsciously shied away from his advances even though I was in the danger of giving in any time.

 

“You’ve talked to him about me,” I was still sour about that point.

 

Cobb finally deigned to give up the pretence that the magazine was his Bible and looked at me. “It came up. Arthur, we have worked together on a lot of things, so people think of us a team. I never wanted you to come over to the illegal side of things,” I made an impatient noise, “so I kept you away from the couple of jobs I worked with Eames. Eames is nosy. The more I tried to brush off why I hadn’t brought along my ‘partner’ from the States, the more curious he got.”

 

So was that what his advances were about? Curiosity?

 

I felt strangely let down.

 

Once the bare outlines of the plans were laid down, it was my turn. Thankfully, I could keep my concentration when the work at hand was my responsibility. It also helped that Eames had disappeared to spy on Eliopoulos Junior to be able to perfect his forgery of him. He was able to wheedle my email and phone number out of me on the pretext of sending me word if he needed something to be done.

 

I had set him up in a hotel in Patras where Eliopoulos Junior was staying for a business meeting. Meanwhile, I got busy arranging trips for Cobb to the old age home where the mark was staying. The extraction was a double level job because the old man had the Alzheimer’s disease. In the first level, we needed to recreate a memory where the old man was still functioning well. If we kidnapped him from that stage, we should be able to take him to a deeper level and then search for what we needed from him.

 

When Eames finally returned from Patras the following Sunday, Cobb had already retired to his room, where he was no doubt videoconferencing with Mal. Mr Papadakis was pleased with how swiftly the job was progressing and had driven down to a local whorehouse for some early celebration.

 

As for me, I was feeling jittery since Eames hadn’t even sent me even so much as a blank text all week and I was annoyed that I was feeling jittery about it. Eames was a big man. He could take care of himself. Apparently, he had called Cobb twice to confirm that everything seemed to be moving smoothly at his end as well. No wonder he hadn’t sent me an email – there was no need for him to when, professionally, he required nothing of me.

 

However, that explanation didn’t stop me from brooding over the lack of word from him. He had hit on me every single possible moment for two and a half days and the only thing stopping him from jumping me was my perpetual scowl when he was in the vicinity. I had finally convinced him that his attentions really were unwelcome and he had done what any normal bloke would – he had lost interest and moved on.

 

It was terrifying how much that bothered me.

 

For fuck’s sake, it was I who had refused to sleep with him in the first place. The loss of his interest was a sign of how he wasn’t a sexual deviant who could potentially rape or stalk me. It was a _good_ thing. And there I was, downing vodka shots at the hotel bar as I moped over a completely reasonable lack of emails or texts from Eames.

 

Not even a ‘jerking off thinking of you’. Maybe I was projecting. That was what I had been doing thinking of Eames. There was no need for him to reciprocate in kind for masturbatory fantasies and then convey the fact to me.

 

This is why thinking sucks. Once you start thinking, it never stops. Not even when you turn into the most irrational and pathetic piece of rag. You just go on and on, hurtling down the hill at breakneck speed till you crash and burn.

 

Eames sat down at the hotel bar a few places away from me just as I knocked back my fifth shot of vodka for the night. Even before I caught sight of him through the corner of my eye, something felt different to my body. It was as if I could bloody sense that he was around without even seeing or listening to him. I was scaring myself bad.

 

I hazarded a glance towards him but he seemed completely oblivious to my existence as he sipped a Cosmopolitan (I had heard him order it). I was debating whether or not I ought to say something first when the bartender came around to ask me if I was having something more.

 

“Beer,” I blurted out as I knocked over my empty shot glass.

 

I could swear Eames was smirking into his drink.

 

“How’d it go?” I decided to stop being a wuss and talk to Eames first. After all, the man had been fabricating some major shit trying to get close enough to Eliopoulos Junior who always moved around with a posse of bodyguards. What if he had been shot at? What if he had to escape from the window of his second floor hotel room to save his life? I needed to stop being a prat. I was on a job, not on a Florida vacation.

 

Eames turned his head in my direction and fixed me with a gaze which made my stomach twist into a million knots. I was light-headed and felt my existence separate from my mortal body. I sound as crazy as Broderick does with his ‘dad is watching over us, Arthur’ talk but that was what it was when Eames fixed his blue-green eyes on me. I must be a sucker for blue eyes.

 

“Better than I expected,” he said at length. It was the most non-lewd thing he had said to me since I had known him and it made my cock jump up and my balls tighten with desire. I have no idea how this happened. Maybe it wasn’t the words. Maybe it was just the fact that he was there, blue eyes, brown hair, all the strapping muscles and his raspy rough voice. He had been gone just for a week but I had been yearning to see him again, hear him again. And when I finally did, there was a lump in my throat and my cock was hard. That is the only time in my life I have felt close to tears and had an erection at the same time. As much over thinking I was doing right then, I made no effort to mull over my body’s physiology. My limits had been stretched much too thin already.

 

I don’t remember what I said to that. “Good” maybe or “Well done”. His lips curled into the most gorgeous smile ever. The blood was rushing through my ears and I could feel my heart beating wildly against my ribs, probably sustaining a good amount of contusions from struggling to escape the bony cage. I had my fingers curled into loose fists but I could feel the tremors at my fingertips. I don’t even remember if I had my beer or not but I was scrambling to get to my feet at the same time Eames did once he finished his drink.

 

I could swear I betrayed no signs of my consternation as we walked back to our rooms. I was wearing loose shorts (I had finally gotten around to buying some after the humidity went up a few more notches following some hard rain) and he won’t really be able to see how he was affecting my cock. I could feel the heat in my cheeks and neck and back down to my toes but it could be written off as one too many drinks, could it not?

 

His room was two doors down from mine and I watched him walk up to it. I was onto him before he could even unlock his door though and I put my hands on his arms, my fingers digging into his biceps as I pressed the length of my body to his back and nosed the back of his head which was a little damp and smelled of the hotel shampoo. Now he would be able to tell how hard I was – I was practically fucking his ass through our shorts.

 

“I’m so fucking _glad_ to see you.”

 

I didn’t even care about how incredibly cheesy I sounded, my voice laced with exaltation. Nothing was more important at that point than conveying to Eames that how really frigging happy I was to see him – not just my cock, but the whole of me. He had to know. No one had made me react so violently to their mere existence before. I had no idea why he did but I was damn glad that he did and I couldn’t bear him not knowing about it.

 

He opened the door and pulled me inside. I was slammed back against the door and pushed up against it in the blink of an eye.

 

“I didn’t take you for the kind of guy who played games, Arthur,” Eames’ voice was sweet, sweet poison against my ear. He hadn’t even taken a moment to turn on the lights. I felt heady, frightened. “Turns out I had you pegged wrong, didn’t I, pet?”

 

I could come just from the relief of having him drop bad sexual innuendos again.

 

I wanted to protest. I had always been all for straightforward dealings. Yes or no. Fuck or don’t fuck. That was me. Nothing was done halfway and I hated playing games. But then I had violated every single one of those rules ever since I had set foot in this foreign country, hadn’t I? I had no defence.

 

I settled for breathing heavily and burying my face in his neck, kissing, biting, and tasting that heavenly skin. I wanted to grab his body, run my fingers over every inch of his skin, grind into his cock as I took his sac into my hands but he had me by my wrists, pinned me to the door. I’m a pretty strong guy myself but he was nearly twice my size in muscles. He acted like an easygoing, playful guy but now I realised the raw power and force of the man. I was simultaneously terrified and turned on. I didn’t know it was even possible to be turned on as much as I was turned on right then.

 

Apparently, the neck was a good starting point because he hissed (in a _good_ way) and let go of my wrists but only to rip my clothes off my body. My eyes had gotten used to the milky moonlight filtering in through the French windows, now and then obscured by a passing cloud. He let me pull off his clothes and back him into the bed. My skin sizzled every place he touched, steamy hot and scorching. My body was driven crazy with the need of having every bit of me touched and kissed by him. The arousal was so intense and palpable that you’d think what I wanted was just his mouth or his hand or his ass as quickly as possible so that I could finally fucking _come_. But it was nothing like that. It wasn’t anything like that at all.

 

“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames groaned out as he rutted against my thigh, cock and balls and rough pubic hair setting my nerves on fire. He rubbed his hands over my torso again and again as if his hands were trying to memorise me by touch alone. He left burning tingles every spot on my body that he kissed – my collarbones, the middle of my chest, my nipples, down to my bellybutton and then the bony lines of my hips. I leaked a little pre-cum as I bucked up towards his chest, my pulsating erection revelling in the feel of rubbing against his chest hair. My balls tightened as he weighed my sac in his hands and then caressed and fondled each side. I groaned with the effort of stopping myself from releasing right then.

 

I drew up my knees, my thighs bracketing his body as I grasped at his short rough hair.

 

“Come here,” I choked out, hoarse, and that was our first kiss, hungry lips, hot breath, straining to hold each other as close as physically possible and feeling how it was distressingly not enough. I kissed him as hard as I could, a searing ache to get more and more of him into me. I felt his fingers hold my throat, just the right amount of pressure as our tastes mingled, tongues touching and exploring so desperately that I could no longer differentiate which mouth parts were his and which were mine.

 

He held my waist in a death grip as he caught his breath and looked at me. His face was lost in the play of moonlight and shadows but I could see his eyes glinting in the dark, like a cat’s. His tattoos were sable shadows clinging to his skin. I felt a yearning so desperate that I thought my body would rip into two from the pain of it.

 

I bucked up my hips to grind our groins together and he brushed wet lips over my jaw and cheek and – I made a strangled, laughing sound – over my eyes and forehead. My ears were ringing; my body was throbbing with the need for release. It hurt how badly aroused I was. But I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to go on like that forever in that state of over sensitized nerves, hyperaware of every bit of my body, feeling like I had no idea where my skin ended and where Eames’ began.

 

“I need to be inside you, pet,” said Eames, urging me to turn onto my side as his calloused fingers stroked down my back to my ass.

 

I would have killed my first born for him right there and then if that is what he asked in a voice like that, dripping need and desire and such a thirst for me that it made my throat constrict.

 

I pushed my ass back against his cock, straining my arm to reach round and take hold of him. There was a clatter as he dropped something from the bedside table but finally managed to locate the lube. His bristly stubble grazed against my neck and shoulders and back as he rubbed his face over them and dropped more wet kisses over new parts of my skin. I spread my legs under his probing fingers, animal moans tearing out of my throat as his fingers coaxed my tight muscles to loosen for him.

 

He lifted himself on an arm and hovered over me. I turned my head just enough to be able to take his lips in another devouring, passionate kiss as his slippery fingers worked my ass. Impatience mounting, he jabbed his fingers inside me too hard and I ended up biting his lips. The metallic taste of his blood mixed into the kiss but neither he nor I had it in us to even pause for breath.

 

I buried my face in the pillows as he rolled on the condom. I wanted nothing more than to grab my balls and pump my cock but I knew if I touched myself now, I won’t be able to hold back anymore. The effort to stay away from the climax and yet so close to it was torturous now but I dug my fingers into the mattress and pushed back my ass for him.

 

“Arthur,” he whispered into my hair as he held my butt cheeks apart. “Arthur, please,” he groaned out, his slicked up length finally breaching my tight heat. My noises, muffled by the pillows, only grew louder as he kissed behind my ears over and over, tongue trailing up and down the nape of my neck. I had stopped wearing my hair long by then and I had no idea how sensitive I was in the parts his mouth was tracing.

 

Or maybe it was just Eames. I won’t be surprised if it was just Eames. He is the only one who has ever put his lips and tongue to those spots.

 

I knew he was feeling the sex as intensely as I was right from the moment when I had pressed up against him in front of his room. But he set up a slow and measured pace of fucking me. He let go of my ass once my passage was receiving him well enough and his hands found mine. He held my fists which were clutching hard at the bed sheet and I loosened them slowly. I needed air so much I was breathing through my mouth, long rough moans escaping with every exhale.

 

He held my hands and I lifted up my ass as far as I could in our position and he fucked me like that for long moments. I was melting under him, all sense of space and time lost to me as my mind, my body was filled with nothing except Eames.

 

When he finally let go of one of my sweaty hands and braced himself against the headboard, I turned my face to the side and said his name. He placed a scratchy, open mouthed kiss against my cheekbone.

 

“Call me Victor,” he said into my ear, his whiskers tickling my skin.

 

I did.

 

He made me scream out, it felt so bloody good. His scent, his weight, the sounds of our bodies coming together filled my senses. I rutted into his bed, clutching his cock hard with my ass to tell him I was going to come. Nothing could make me hold back anymore. His groans mixed with mine and I’m not sure who came first but we reached the bliss soon after on each other’s heels. He held himself up on one arm for a little while after I had collapsed.

 

“Come here,” I repeated myself, slurring the words some because my voice was raw and it hurt to speak.

 

He settled next to me and I pulled him into my arms, burying his face in my chest as I hugged his head. I fell asleep to the feeling of his fingers stroking my back and ass under the covers he had pulled around our bodies.

 

When I woke up, I was on my back and Eames lay half on top of me, his head tucked under my chin, an arm slung over my hip. It was still dark when I opened my eyes. The overcast sky was a murky grey and it began raining even as I lay awake, the patter of the rain against the roof and windows drowning out Eames’ low snores.

 

After days and days of overwhelming thinking, last night with Eames had finally returned my ability to lie blank and serenely devoid of useless thoughts. I felt exceptionally sated. I wanted to pull up Eames and kiss his lips but I feared to disturb his sleep. Intense as last night’s sex had been, I knew that it was the first time I had had sex like that. I didn’t think whether it was going to be a onetime thing or if Eames was going to treat me to another session of sex like that. It was a really different type of sex. Nothing like I had fantasized and jerked off to, still it had opened up something inside me that I did not comprehend. But here was the thing, it did not matter if I understood it or not, I felt it hard all the same. My toes tingled just at the thought of a repeat performance of last night.

 

My right arm was numb from Eames lying on top of it. I pressed my fingers to his chest and I could palpate the faint outline of his strong ribs and pressed in my fingers to feel the spaces in between. Even if he was asleep, the rhythmic staccato of his heart jumped to my fingers.

 

I wanted to lower the barricades and mull over last night. What had been so different? How had it turned out to be so different? Was it because I had held back my first impulse to have sex with Eames before? I couldn’t come up with any answers. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a precipice looking into a vast stretch of darkness. I couldn’t move forward unless I could see something but no matter how hard I looked, there was nothing but a thick black void.

 

It wasn’t for a lack of thinking anymore. I was thinking hard, reliving moments from last night coloured with a sweet sort of sadness that it had gotten over. I remembered with a striking clarity how I had forced and forced myself to stay on the brink of pleasure without giving in so that I could share that frenzied intimacy with Eames some more. It had just taken Eames’ presence to rouse me to a state of hyper arousal. Would that really happen twice?

 

“Wake up, Eames,” I told him when the clock on the wall finally read six and I didn’t want to be the only one awake anymore. It was raining cats and dogs by then. I hadn’t spoken loudly enough but I stopped stroking Eames’ hair and shifted from underneath him. He held onto me tighter and grumbled incomprehensibly.

 

“I need to go pee,” I told him, louder, and he finally opened his eyes and squinted at me. It tugged at my chest a little to see how he looked like a small lost boy despite the heavy shadow over his face and the lines around his eyes.

 

He mumbled something gruffly which I figured was “What time is it?” He made a noise of disbelief when I told him, loosened his hold on me enough to let me get out of the bed and promptly fell back asleep.

 

I could have gone back to my room since it was still early in the morning and it was just two doors down. But I went inside Eames’ bathroom. He only had one toothbrush so I settled for gargling and swirling with the mouthwash for now and then decided that I wanted to take a shower as well. Eames had just been using the complementary toiletries from the hotel. I could have used a proper shampoo and body wash if I had only gone back to my room but instead, I was stuck with an awfully fragrant shampoo and a terribly artificial-smelling soap. I stepped back into the room smelling half-antiseptic, half-something-generic but it felt warm and soothing to see Eames sprawled on the bed on his stomach, head turned to a side, covers threatening to bare his ass.

 

He hadn’t unpacked last night and his suitcase was sprawled open on the floor, spewing forth motley of colourful patterned shirts, shorts and pants. I spotted coloured squares which could be bandana or handkerchiefs. At least everything smelled clean. I couldn’t help smiling when I saw a blue t-shirt with “Happy birthday, Vicki” printed across the front of it. I folded it neatly and put it away before pulling on a white flowery shirt and a pair of navy and neon yellow track suit pants. His clothes were big on me but they would do.

 

I glanced towards the bed again. Eames was still blissfully asleep. I sat down in front of his suitcase and gave his belongings a closer scrutiny. He owned at least five fake passports, each with a different name, but none of them had Victor Eames written on it. There were two packs of playing cards, a leather case with many different sorts of small tools, pens and stationery, an envelope with a few different types of currencies wedged underneath all the clothes, a Heckler and Koch, and a case with extra rounds for it.  

 

Something shifted in the pocket of the pants when I stood up again. I put my hand inside and brought out a red dice. As I held it in my palm, something seemed off about its weight. I went over to the bed and sat down. I looked at Eames and then at the dice again before rolling it once. Six. I tried it a few more times but it always invariably faced up to show the two rows of three dots to represent the six. A loaded dice, I thought to myself and put it inside the pocket again. It was a conman’s tool.

 

I slid in next to him and he growled low through his throat, a tiger’s purr, as I spooned behind him and placed my arm across his chest. Maybe I’m secretly a cuddly kind of guy, I thought. Also, Eames’ breath didn’t stink. The covers made it a little too warm but it was terribly comforting. I never forgot how good it felt to lay there with him, his warm bulky body in my arms and cocooned under soft duvet, the sound of thunder and rain blissfully washing everything else out of existence.

 

I woke up to water drops falling over my face and neck and the smell of Old Spice aftershave. I was reminded of Broderick for a confused second – he is the only guy I know who used it. And I wondered if the roof was dripping water. But then I opened my eyes and Eames was staring down at me, wet hair and upper body bare except for its designs, face clean shaven and only inches away from mine.

 

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” he said, eyes dancing with teasing mirth.

 

I unstuck my tongue from my palate and pushed him back as I sat up with a groan.

 

“Five minutes before Cobb starts ringing our phones, wondering if we perished in the storm,” he informed me. He had the hotel towel around his neck and was wearing khaki Bermuda pants. Noticing how his eyes were fixed on me, I remembered that I was wearing his clothes.

 

“Uh...” I said, as I looked down and tugged at the shirt.

 

“Keep them,” he replied and started to towel dry his hair. “You need more colour in your sorrowing wardrobe.”

 

I swear that’s the word he used – _sorrowing_.

 

It was too much of an insult or I would have thanked him. Instead, I swatted his ass on my way out, his laugh following me through the door.

 

Afterwards, I felt more focussed on my job despite of always being aware of Eames’ presence beside me. If Cobb or Papadakis noticed that Eames had completely stopped flirting with me, then they did not mention it. Cobb might just have been too relieved by the state of non-sexuality that existed in our meetings now to jinx it by commenting upon it.

 

The next few nights were as intense but less desperate. Now that I knew that Eames wanted me as bad as I wanted him, it placated my anxious feelings. Instead, I would concentrate more on exploring every bit of his body, my mind registering every single response and branding my memory with it. However, that did not mean that Eames had opened up his body to me as completely as I had surrendered to him.

 

“We will try that later, yeah?” he said hoarsely as I pushed my fingers towards his butthole. I was on my knees in front of him, sucking him off after leaving teasing marks over his stomach and the insides of his thighs. We took our time with the sex every single night. After wrapping up the work for the day, I would go over to his room and we would lose our clothes quickly before setting out to explore each other’s bodies. He had completely set the pace that first night. Now that I knew sex could involve such prolonged delicious suffering, I couldn’t get enough of it.

 

Since I had his cockhead prodding the back of my throat, I could only pull back my fingers and give his firm butt a reassuring squeeze – it was okay, if he didn’t want me going in through the back door just now, then I could wait.

 

After I had swallowed down his load and he had licked my mouth and face clean of any of his own juices which had escaped my mouth, I lay next to him, holding him to my chest. My eyes grew heavy with sleep but I had to know.

 

“I can fuck you good, too, you know,” I said drowsily, pressing down my cheek into his hair. “I’m good at it – I’ve been _told_.”

 

Eames chuckled against my chest and squeezed my ass.

 

“I don’t doubt it, darling,” he said. He pulled back a little and I forced my eyes open to look at him. I couldn’t see his expression very well in the darkness but I felt an unknown dread and clung closer to him. Eames took my chin in his hand and we kissed slowly. It was the chastest kiss we had shared hitherto, just lips whispering against lips, no traces of tongue or saliva.

 

“Later, okay?” he said and shifted up so that he could bring my head to rest against his shoulder.

 

I fell asleep soon afterwards but I remembered his preferences afterwards. I was always keen on respecting what my partner in bed preferred. Since Eames made only this one demand of me, I had no qualms agreeing to it. Moreover, he hadn’t said he won’t let me fuck him. He just needed time. We could just do it ‘later’.

                                                                                                              

I spent the following rainy Sunday outside, taking care of some details and investigating Papadakis’ employer on the side. He had told us that he was acting for someone but was strictly instructed not to reveal anything more than that. Secrets were what caused trouble so wherever there was a whiff of secret, it was my job to sniff the trail and find out where it lead.

 

Eames stayed back in Cobb’s room (that was our meeting room now) with the PASIV and Somnacin in order to perfect and practice his forgery of Eliopoulos Junior. I was deeply interested in the whole ‘forgery’ thing. I hadn’t heard of anyone impersonating another person in a dream before. There was no military research about it. It was weird, really. If military knew about this, they would have a field day with the havoc they could cause with it. PASIV won’t remain just a training experiment anymore; it could be turned into a full-fledged weapon.

 

And Eames was ex-military, I reminded myself. Maybe military did know about this whole impersonation thing. They had just kept it a darn good secret – so much so that even I hadn’t been able to get a hint of it. Could I actually ask Eames about it? Cobb didn’t have a very flattering opinion of Eames’ integrity. Would Eames tell me the truth? He was under no obligation to do that just because we had been having mind-blowing sex every night for a week. We were here to extract a will from an old man’s mind. Anything more was no longer strict business.

 

I reported my findings to Cobb. Papadakis was working for the head of a crime syndicate who operated one of the biggest banking companies. Eliopoulos had left behind a complicated will and in parts with different law firms so that the contents would be hard to find out without arousing great suspicion. Eliopoulos had two sons and a daughter. Papadakis’ employer wanted to know what kind of profits a marriage between Eliopoulos Junior and his daughter could generate.

 

The older son had left the family twenty years ago but rumour was that he was the chief beneficiary of the will. In that case, it would be a very unprofitable arrangement. The full true contents of the will were currently only known to the old man who had lost his mind to early onset Alzheimer’s. It seemed too much effort for a single will at first glance but the numbers involved were big. Eliopoulos were in the oil business.

 

Cobb rubbed his chin.

 

“Well, we need to run fast once the extraction is done. We don’t want to linger around for Junior to catch on.”

 

“We can get the job done on Thursday this week. It is the best day,” I told him, “Eliopoulos Junior would have finished his customary visit to his disabled father. If the dream levels are perfected, then we can start moving. Ground work is almost done. The coast will be clear on Thursday. It has the least number of visitors, minimal chances of interference even though Papadakis will stay topside.”

 

Cobb took my word for it. It has always been a matter of pride for me how Cobb never questioned my part of work. A few years later, when I failed him for the first time, I hated myself for it.

 

“We’ll tell Papadakis tomorrow. Eames is confident about his forgery as well.”

 

Eames had already retired for the night when I returned.

 

This Thursday meant that there were still three days before we moved in to do the job. We couldn’t take it easy, of course, since there were still a few details to be worked out but having a confirmed date made things run smoother. It also meant that I knew how much more time I had left with Eames.

 

The door to my room was unlocked and the bedside lamp turned on. Eames sat on the bed, reclining against the headboard. He could have turned on the TV but he hadn’t. He just sat there, making no pretence about the fact that he was waiting for me.

 

“Hard day, darling?” he asked as I locked the door behind me and then started to undress. He remained seated on the bed, following me only with his eyes.

 

“Next time, Mr Eames,” I said, loosening my tie and tossing it on the bed, “I will leave my key with you so that you don’t have to pick the lock.”

 

He grinned, a smug Cheshire cat grin, and picked up my tie. “What would be the fun in that, pet?”

 

I hung up my suit and stood in my boxers and socks, looking through the small wardrobe and got out my grey pinstripe pyjamas. I could feel his eyes raking over every inch of my body even though I had my back to him.

 

“You could always steal the key from me for fun, too,” I said as I turned to face him again, buttoning up the pyjama shirt. I picked up the PASIV and came around to stand on his side of bed. He was still dressed in the yellow polka dot shirt and khaki Bermuda pants that I had last seen him in. He stopped playing with the tie which he had unknotted completely and dropped it to the side when I stood near him.

 

“Show me how you forge, Eames.”

 

He glanced from the PASIV in my hand to my face, his eyes more careful even though he kept smiling genially. “Demanding tonight, aren’t we, love?”

 

I set the PASIV on the bedside table and sat down near him. He looked a little tired and there was the usual five o’clock shadow over his jaws. While he had made my stomach flip flop with the smooth, clean look every morning, I still liked this end-of-the-day look better. I envied him too – I wish I could grow facial hair that fast. I hardly used my shaver twice a week. He sat up straighter and I ran a thumb over his lower lip. “I will stay on the first level while you go down to the second with Cobb and forge Junior. Eames, I want to see for myself what it is that you do.”

 

He kissed my thumb and took hold of my wrist. I caressed his jaw and shifted even closer, my body right up against his now. He rested a broad hand on my thigh and rubbed it in slow strokes. “I’m just a regular conman, darling,” he said, tilting his head and leaning into my touch. I loved the feel of his face in my hand. “It’s nothing special.”

 

“Please, Eames,” I asked, stroking his bristly cheek with a thumb, “I want to watch you do it. I’m not even asking you to teach me.”

 

He chuckled and turned his head to kiss my palm. “I would teach you if I could, pet,” his hand on my thigh urged me to move into his lap. I obeyed. “But it is something you teach yourself after a lot of observation and practice.”

 

I ran my fingers through his short hair and cupped his neck with both my hands. “Cobb says you can forge anyone the job requires,” I said as I looked into his eyes.

 

He kneaded the muscles of my butt and then rested one on my back and another on my thigh. “Yeah? What else did dear Dominick tell you about me?” he asked, amused.

 

I pressed kisses along his coarse jaw to his ear and bit into the top of the shell before licking and soothing the spot. “He said I could convince you to give me a demonstration if I got you hard and refused to let you come,” I said right against his ear. I pushed down my ass towards his groin, grinding against him once to emphasize my point.

 

A low rumbling laugh escaped him. He turned and manoeuvred me so that I was on my back on the bed next to him. It fazed me how he could manhandle a grown up man. It wasn’t just that he was strong, it felt like he was used to getting his own way with that strength because he was skilled and knew many techniques.

 

“Cobb said that, did he?” he asked as he leaned over me and got a line from the PASIV. “Well, Cobb was wrong. Do you want to know what happens when you get me hard and put me under?” he asked teasingly as he met my eyes again. I lifted off the bed a little to be able to press our lips together. We kissed deeply but it was unhurried and sensuous.

 

He breathed against my skin and licked his lips when I fell back against the pillow again.

 

“Show me,” I whispered, imploring as I rolled up my left sleeve.

 

He kissed the corner of my mouth again before taking a line and fixed the needle for me.

 

“Take me to your dreams then, darling.”

 

I fell asleep to the sight of Eames smiling and woke up in the streets of Antigua. Cobb had often warned me not to recreate from memories but since this was a not a work-related PASIV trip and Eames expected me to create something for him, I thought of the only place I knew which was both beautiful and imprinted in my memory strongly enough to build at a moment’s notice.

 

I had been to Antigua on a holiday so it had no dream share associations for me. There hadn’t even been any boys in that trip because the place wasn’t exactly a dream destination for gay men. However, I had enjoyed the break from my regular life and had spent a comforting two weeks exploring the islands.

 

When I opened my eyes, I was in a casual white floral shirt (like the one I had borrowed from Eames but it fit me better) and a pair of brown shorts. An exuberant mix of people populated the streets. I looked around, trying to spot Eames. Why couldn’t I have dreamt up something more isolated like the quaint hotel room I had near the beach in St John’s?

 

I walked down a street, passing by the pub I had frequented. I stopped as a young girl almost ran into me and steadied her with a grin. I turned around the corner and headed down the road I knew would take me towards my beach house here. I kept an eye out for Eames, but he was nowhere to be seen yet.

 

As the crowds thinned out, I stopped and climbed up a rocky slope which had a good view of the area all around. The beach houses were just a quarter of a mile down from here and this area would normally be populated by tourists. However, finally Eames was done hiding among his projections because there were no people around anymore.

 

I spotted a man coming down the road in a white and green shirt and loose black shorts.

 

I spotted _myself_ coming down the road in a white and green shirt and loose black shorts.

 

I stood rooted to the spot till ‘I’ was standing right in front of me.

 

“What the hell, Eames,” I blurted out, feeling disconcerted as I stared at my face.

 

‘I’ scowled – it was disturbing, as if I was frowning at my image in a mirror – and looked stern. “But you wanted a demonstration, didn’t you, Arthur?” he said in my voice, my accent. It was a pleasantly warm day but my hair stood on end as Eames’ forgery of me spoke. He looked around, a thin line between his brows still and slipped an arm around my waist. “Lovely place though – what is it? The Bahamas?”

 

“Eames,” I said, pushing ‘myself’ away. “ _Don’t_ … Jesus, you’re freaking me out.”

 

He laughed and in another moment, he was Eames again. Hair mussed by the sea breeze and jaw smooth, he looked breathtakingly beautiful.

 

I sat down on a rock, simultaneously relieved and awed. I took his hand and turned it over. It was Eames’ hand as I knew it. “You are one very creepy man, you know that, right?” I said in the same stern voice he had used. But it had been impressive, _very_ impressive. “Can you add another finger to your hand?” I asked, looking up at him.

 

“Forging isn’t about the specifics, pet,” he said, closing his fingers around my hand and lifting it up to his lips. I felt butterflies in my stomach as he kissed each of my fingers one by one, “although if you have that kind of kink, I won’t mind growing an extra finger here. I could think of quite a few uses it would have.”

 

It was an art how easily he slid between romantic and lecherous. No wonder forging came easily to him.

 

I pinched his chin on one side and pulled back my hand. “When did you get the time to practice being me?” I demanded. “I thought you were going to show me how far along you were as Eliopoulos Junior.”

 

“And that won’t have impressed you half as much,” he preened, leaning in closer, a hand braced on a jut of mossy stone beside me. He knew how charming he was, how handsome and alluring and dream space or not, he was shameless about using it to his advantage. In fact, he revelled in it. I wasn’t a novice so I could see through the charms. I couldn’t see what was beneath the mask though and that scared me.

 

I lifted a hand to his cheek, tracing a scar beneath his left ear. “Do it again,” I said.

 

He raised a brow, looking amused. I looked back at him, my expression neutral. He knew what he needed to do in order to impress me. I didn’t want to grant him the satisfaction of seeing it on my face.

 

I felt my cock stirring as he licked his lower lip. He closed the distance between us, pressing his lips to mine. I slipped an arm around his body as I kissed him back. I could feel the shape and weight of him change as we kept kissing and I shut my eyes.

 

“Please tell me that you’re not _me_ again,” I begged against his lips, shutting my eyes even harder. He kissed me again instead of replying and I let him explore my mouth, hesitant under the invasion of an unfamiliar tongue. I felt up his jaw and cheeks, registering the closely shaved goatee and ran my fingers through the long strands of silky hair.

 

My heart gave a lurch and I pulled back hastily, shoving him off me.

 

Cobb was looking at me intensely – cornflower blue eyes pinning me down with that calculating gaze which always made me squirm.

 

“What in the bleeding _fuck_!” I spluttered, getting up and scrambling away from him. “You’re a fucking bastard, Victor Eames.” I wiped my mouth hastily. I could feel the muscle twitching crazily in my jaw, the one that grew too taut when I was in a fury. “You fucking asshole!”

 

If it was Eames, he would have laughed, but the bastard was still a few inches too tall, his skin much too pale, thin veins showing on his temples and jaw and it fucked me up real bad the way Cobb was looking at me like he wanted to fuck me senseless. I turned and walked away from him.

 

“Arthur,” he began as I pulled the Glock out of the pocket of my shorts and held it to my temple. I didn’t get to hear what he was going to say. I didn’t even know if he had changed back to Eames. I shot myself in the head and woke up in my Greek hotel room.

 

I could hear my heartbeat hammering away as I slid off the needle, disposed of it, and put back the Somnacin line. I was disoriented, the sound of the thunder rolling across the sky making everything even more surreal than it already was. Eames woke up soon after.

 

“You’re an asshole,” I glared at him as I pulled the needle out of his arm with unnecessary force. “I hate assholes.” I don’t remember the last time I’d had such a furious outburst. “Stay away from me!” I slapped his hand away when he tried to take hold of my wrist and walked away from him. My pyjama shirt was damp and stuck to my back. I picked up the Evian from the dresser and gulped down the whole bottle.

 

“Arthur,” he tried speaking, getting out of the bed. I capped the empty bottle and flung it at his head before he could complete what he was going to say. I didn’t want to listen to any greasy explanation he would ensnare me into believing.

 

“What did you think you were doing back there?” I demanded angrily. “No, you know what, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” I jerked open the hotel room door and pointed out. “Get out! Now! Get the fuck out of here, Eames, and don’t you dare break in again!”

 

He was at least sensible enough to not push me in this state. My hands were shaking with rage. His face was inscrutable as he stopped trying to reason with me and silently got up and left the room. I slammed the door behind him and went into the bathroom. I turned on the cold shower and stood under it, taking deep breaths and willing myself to calm down. It had been my dream, my location. A regular extractor won’t be able to get anything out of my subconscious, not when I was the dreamer. My subconscious was sufficiently militarized to keep out any forceful invaders but I had let Eames in – I had wanted Eames to be inside my head because I wanted to see what new things he could do in a dream space.

 

But Eames was no regular extractor.

 

Even so, once I felt my anger ebb away, I began regretting turning Eames out of my room without giving him a chance to explain himself. Maybe he just thought it was funny. He was into that silly theatrics, wasn’t he? Or he could have been trying to pry some personal secret from me. I couldn’t think of what he wanted by forging Cobb as he kissed me. Did he think I was fucking Cobb? Cobb’s marriage to Mal had been a quiet affair but they worked together and created together so it wasn’t a secret. I was jealous of Mal in some ways and resented her at times but I knew, in the rawest depths of my subconscious, that I didn’t want to kiss Cobb.

 

Not like I wanted to kiss Eames even after the fucking stupid stunt he had pulled on me.

 

I turned on the hot water as my body started shivering violently and once I was feeling human enough once more, I got out of the bathroom and sat down on my bed. The covers were thrown back where Eames had sat waiting for me. I sighed and rubbed my face. Ex-military, conman, thief, forger – Eames was far beyond the scope of the kind of people I had dealt with before. I had withheld running a background check on him only because Cobb had told me not to bother with it. As long as we did our job and got out of here fast, there was nothing to worry about.

 

I found the red dice which I had kept under the pillow and weighed it in the palm of my hand, letting it topple over to find its balance before rolling it over a few times on the bedside table. Mal had come up with this ingenious idea of using a ‘totem’ to keep check of whether or not one was in another person’s dream. For a couple of years now, I had been using a coin from my dad’s coin collection. My biological dad, that is. Broderick had insisted that I have it even though I knew that he liked hoarding our late parents’ belongings more than I did. There was a real 1944 Jefferson war time nickel in his collection – those coins had a mintmark P over the dome of Monticello, unlike the nickels now, which looked more like the counterfeit Henning nickels back then.

 

While I still carried around that nickel, I had always been wary of the off chance that I would spend the nickel. It was less likely that I’d lose the dice.

 

I had also gotten unhealthily attached to the dice the moment I had discovered it. Maybe I was just fishing for an excuse to have it on my person all the time. Eames would know about the way it was loaded, won’t he? But it didn’t seem like he knew about totems or whether I had stolen a red dice from his collection of odd things.

 

Afterwards, I got out my laptop and glasses and set to work. I kept at it for a couple of hours but nothing came up on him. I remembered each name and nationality on his fake passport but they were dead leads. There were rumours in clandestine chat forums about some extractors who could impersonate other people but they were discarded as urban legends since the majority of people familiar with dream share hadn’t come across such extractors at all. Dream share online could have been Wiccan or vampire community online – it was completely uninformative and everyone had their own way of doing things, sure of their own opinions and experiences.

 

I reviewed what the British military records had to say about Project Somnacin but drew up a blank there as well. I was just assuming Eames was ex-British military because of that salacious and occasionally incomprehensible English accent but he could have faked it as easily as he had faked my Californian lilt. I shut down my computer and made a mental note to grill Cobb about forging at a near date.

 

As I turned off the lamp and rested my head on the pillow, I told myself I was imagining the scent of Eames’ aftershave. I curled up under the covers, frantically wishing I had Eames in my arms and his body wrapped around mine.

 

The next day, Eames was as subdued with his sexual innuendos as he had been all week. In fact, he was uncharacteristically polite to me. I went under with Cobb for greater part of the day, going over the layout of the first level where I was the dreamer and filling in the last of the details. Eames disappeared around lunch and he was gone for the rest of the day. Cobb did not comment on his disappearance and I couldn’t bear to mention him to Cobb.

 

For the last couple of days leading up to the extraction, I was always aware of a low ache in the pit of stomach which was born of a need for Eames. I could have come on to him when he returned the next day, initiated something, and chances were that he would have gone on along with it. But I had turned him away rudely and hadn’t apologised the next morning so I was petrified at the thought that Eames would tell me how dare I, that he was done with me, that it was really just a fling to him and I had put him off with my psychotic explosion over what he thought was a harmless joke.

 

It would be even worse if he did submit to my advances and the next sex I had with him would be the kind of sex I had always had before I had slept with Eames – a quick needy fuck and then parting ways to sleep off the night in our own rooms.

 

I remembered how scared I had been despite the arousal coursing through my veins when I had first slept with him. I remembered how he had terrified me when he had turned into Cobb in the middle of kissing me in the dream. I couldn’t define that fear no matter how hard I thought about it. And even if I could tell what I was afraid of now, I couldn’t understand where it all came from.

 

Eames didn’t break into my room again. I didn’t knock on his door either.

 

Soon, it was time for extraction. I put a lid on the vortex of feelings the cold distance from Eames had aroused in me. I told myself that it was only one more day. After that, the job would be done and I would hop onto the plane back to LA with Cobb. Eames hadn’t revealed his plans to us – at least not to me. Maybe Cobb knew. But I wasn’t asking him that. I’d have nothing more to do with Eames after this. I forced myself to believe that it was a good thing even if I had stowed away a bottle of vodka in my room to ease me into sleep the next two nights.

 

On Thursday, we were able to isolate Eliopoulos Senior – John Eliopoulos – without a hitch. The three of us, Cobb, Eames and I, were to go under while Papadakis remained topside.

 

The first level of the dream was focussed on getting John to appear in a situation when he was still himself. That had been Eames’ idea. We had figured his daughter’s wedding to be the most memorable moment for him. It was the last major event in his life where he still had all his wits about him. He had known then that his mind would slowly degenerate and had already drawn his will and made sure that it would be kept a secret until his death.

 

At this level, I was the dreamer and Cobb was to get ready to dream the second level. The wedding had taken place in an Orthodox chapel. Eames and I had to kidnap John from a wedding full of people and as perfectly as we had charted it out to the last detail, of course, John’s projections sensed something was wrong.

 

We had a good start on them but John’s bodyguards soon came chasing after us. We had to get John to a basement I had constructed below the chapel. As soon as the bodyguards got close, Eames decided on his own that he would cover me and in the process, got shot in the shoulder and thigh. He shot back as good and distracted them as I took the detour that would lead down to the basement.

 

“Keep going, darling,” he rasped out, as I stopped, shocked, watching the gunshot wound in his shoulder ooze red blood. The thigh had just been grazed but the shoulder looked bad. “Just down to the basement, love, and we need just ten more minutes at this level to go and get it,” he coaxed me out of my stupor.

 

My body was better at reacting than my numbed brain and I dragged semi-conscious John down the stairs, Eames following.

 

“Eames is shot,” I blurted out as soon as I saw Cobb and dumped John onto a chair.

 

Cobb shot an annoyed look towards Eames and then continued setting up the PASIV, holding down John’s arm and attaching the needle to it.

 

“Fuck, Eames, Arthur was to cover you in case something happened. Would you keep to the plan _for once_?”

 

“He’s fucking _shot_!” I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to punch Cobb in the face. Eames could have _died_. I was being unreasonable and thankfully, Cobb paid no attention to me.

 

“Darling,” Eames took my hand and placed a bright pink and white handkerchief in my hand, “don’t panic. Here, be a dear and help me, would you? It is just ten minutes of time at this level. Just keep applying pressure so that I don’t bleed to death. Everything else will turn out fine.”

 

There was a rumble of footsteps upstairs. The basement wasn’t in the original church building where John’s daughter had gotten married. The projections would sense John’s presence but using a place from his memory gave us the advantage of using it against him. They could go back and forth over the foyer but they won’t know to look underneath.

 

My fingers shook when I tied the cloth over Eames wound as he guided me. He sat down and I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking long enough to put the needle into his vein. Cobb had already gone under.

 

“Arthur,” Eames took the needle from me with his bad hand and poised it over the point in his arm which bore a lot of tiny prick marks. I met his eyes, equal parts scared and ashamed. I felt horribly incompetent. “It is just a dream. I’m going to be okay. But I need you to stay calm. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

 

I swallowed hard and nodded. His hand fell back limp against his side as I fixed the needle to his arm.

 

I remembered what Eames had told me about applying pressure to his shoulder. I pulled off my shirt and balled it up. As I pressed it into his oozing wound, I realised with a start that tears were trickling down my cheek.

 

 _This is just a fucking dream_ , I told myself angrily. The worst that can happen if Eames is shot to death is that he will wake up. He was in pain before but moving on to the next level will ease some of that pain. If he wakes up and our plan fails, then we can just try again. Papadakis might give us a pay cut but fuck the money. Eames would be okay. There was no need for me to be a bloody _baby_ over it.

 

I wiped my face angrily when it was time to set the music. Ten minutes had never moved so slowly before. I pressed down hard on Eames’ wound with both hands, occasionally pressing one palm to his chest. I remembered how his heart beat from the morning after we had slept together that first time. Initially, it was the same as it had been then but then the rhythm increased, a cold sweat broke over his body.

 

 _He’s dying_ , I thought crazed, horrified. I pressed onto the wound harder like he had told me to. He had instructed me he to keep him alive. Even if he was under, his face was contorted in pain. I was torn between putting him out of his misery and doing as he had told me. I had to do what he wanted.

 

 _I’m sorry_ , _Eames_ , I whispered to him over and over, pressing onto the wound harder, _I’m so, so sorry_.

 

I delivered the kick to Cobb first and he proceeded to wake up John as I pushed Eames’ chair back towards the mattress behind him. He groaned as he opened his eyes and gave me a funny half-smile as I hovered on top of him. His face was twisted in agony and he shut his eyes soon after, turning his face away from me. His breathing was laboured as he pressed his face into the mattress.

 

‘ _He’s been in so much pain_ ,’ was my last thought before Papadakis brought us all back to reality. The terrible expression had been clearly reflected in his eyes when he had come back up to the first level. ‘ _He’s been in such terrible pain and every second that I kept him from dying here, I was prolonging his suffering in the deeper level._ ’

 

The extraction had been a success. But we had to scatter fast. Lingering at the crime scene is the first mistake which leads to getting caught. Eames was himself again and Cobb made no comment on how I had lost my cool when I saw Eames bleeding all over the place. I kept the dice in my fist, the peculiar weight of it keeping me anchored to reality.

 

Papadakis left for Rhodes that very evening after handing us our payouts. I usually felt a little thrill every time a client transferred an unholy amount of money to my bank account but this time, I was strangely repulsed. It wasn’t because the job was illegal. I knew that being in dream share was already toeing the fine line between legal and illegal. I did have some qualms in the beginning when I learnt that we would be extracting from a helpless man with a decaying brain but I had already signed up for it and after a day, I grew used to the idea.

 

No, what made me hate myself was that tortured look on Eames’ face when he came back from the second level. Maybe he had been shot right in the nerves. Maybe he had broken something inside. But whatever the case, the Somnacin hadn’t been enough to ease the pain in the deeper level. And I had kept him alive through it all, making sure he suffered just so that he could finish the bloody job.

 

I was humiliated by own breakdown when I saw him shot, too, and even if Cobb spared me the ‘you’re still too young for this’ lecture, I hated how Eames had to take charge to make me get myself under control. The job might have been a success against the odds but that was no thanks to me. In fact, I’d have been much more useful if I hadn’t gone under, I told myself angrily.

 

There was a knock on my door while I was packing my bags that night. We had an early flight back to LA the next morning. If I couldn’t sleep because of the shame and guilt, at least I could be ready in time.

 

“Alright there, Arthur?” asked Eames casually when I opened the door. I didn’t even know he owned something as simple as a blue polo shirt and white slacks.

 

“I’m fine,” I snapped and turned back, leaving the door open. I had no reason to project my anger onto him but I was so mad at myself, I wanted someone to hate me for what I had done.

 

I heard the door close and the metallic click of the lock turning. I began folding up my shirts with vehemence and put them in my suitcase.

 

“Arthur,” Eames was just inches behind me. “Try to look a little happy, pet. The job was a success.”

 

Bile rose and burnt the back of my throat.

 

“Yeah, congratulations,” I threw in the rest of my clothes without bothering to fold them. The turmoil of emotions inside me was dark and grim. I could sit and separate out each feeling and then work to rationalise them away one by one but I won’t offer myself that comfort. I was disgusted at myself and I deserved the pain that came with it.

 

“Arthur,” Eames was more authoritative when he spoke this time. I stopped messing around with my clothes and stood still.

 

My skin went cold as his hand came up to rub along my back. What did he think he was doing here? He should hate my face. Just because we had fucked, had he come here to take pity on me and forgive me?

 

“What do you want?” I asked him, my voice harsh and shrill. My throat felt horribly tight.

 

His hand hesitated in the middle of my spine but then he took hold of my arm and turned me around. He grabbed my chin and made me look up but I won’t meet his eyes. I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, not after what I had done to him, not after I had showcased how incompetent I was to him.

 

“Look at me, Arthur,” he commanded, no trace of tenderness in his voice this time. I felt all energy leave my body and bit hard into my lower lip as I complied.

 

“You did what I told you to. You did what you had to do in order to finish the job. I don’t hold it against you and don’t you dare insult all the hard work and effort I put in back there. I might not be a clean one like you and dear Dominick here but I get my jobs done – I have that. Do you understand?”

 

I nodded dumbly. He searched my eyes and then dropped his hand from my chin.

 

“Cobb told me you never worked a job this illegal before,” Eames said. He rested his hand on my shoulder but didn’t pull me any closer. “Dream share, at large, doesn’t operate like a rational world, Arthur. If I fuck up the job for a big client, then that is it. I lose all credibility even though I have a string of successful extractions to my name and I’m the best Forger you could ask for. What you have in America, under the blessings of your military, might as well be a dream.” He squeezed my shoulder. “But that is only because Cobb is important to the military. The moment he slips, they will turn the guns on him – and you. They won’t care that you have no idea that Cobb is the mastermind between the two of you. Arthur, you need to think about things like this.”

 

I stepped away from him and shrugged off his hand.

 

“I’m sorry I was useless on this job but that is not always so and I can do my jobs just fine, Mr Eames!” I told him. “I have seen people getting shot in the dreams before and I have used a gun in dreams myself when I’ve had to! I’m not such a novice!” _It is just the reaction I had to seeing_ you _being shot, Victor Eames._ “I can handle such things just fine! And I cover our tracks when we fall a bit out of line. All the militaries of the world can work together but they won’t find shit to pin on us!”

 

Eames made a sound of frustration and took my face in his hands, stepping unbearably close to me. “Will you just listen to me properly, you hot-headed idiot? You were not useless! And I don’t doubt that you’re good at all. You’re not a narcissist and I am not taking you for an idiot. If I could, I would woo you away from Cobb and get you to work with me on my jobs.” My heart missed a beat. “But Cobb is a fuck up. He doesn’t care what kind of dangers he drags people in as long as he gets what he wants. He is fun to work with but I won’t trust him with my life.” The way he said it, he implied that I could be trusted with his life. And that was crazy. “But you’re not Cobb and you’re nothing like Cobb. You’re a good guy, Arthur, you’re bloody brilliant, and you don’t deserve...” He stopped short and pushed back the hair from my forehead. “You should be making a good life for yourself.”

 

“I’m doing what I want with my life.”

 

I didn’t know if I meant it but I spit forth the words with an emphasis.

 

Eames gave up then and I almost regretted saying what I had because he pulled his hands away from me.

 

“If that’s what you want...” he began.

 

“I know what I want,” I cut him short.

 

Something feral and dangerous flickered in his eyes as he looked at me. I remembered how he had pinned me to the door with seemingly no effort that one night. If it had been anyone but Eames, I know I would have felt emasculated. But not with Eames, it hadn’t. With him, it made me want to hand him all the power and let him do what he wanted to me.

 

What I wanted to do at that moment was to push him onto my bed and lick and kiss every inch of his body. I wanted to graze my nails through that rough hair below and then suck on his sac and cock. I wanted to keep the lights on in my room and get a close, close look at all the ink on his skin. I wanted to jerk off on his stomach and chest and then lick him some more before falling asleep against his warm body. Come morrow, and I would tell Cobb to go fuck himself because I wanted to work with Eames. He had wooed me away. I wanted to go wherever he would lead me and never look back again.

 

If it meant never returning to LA, never seeing Mal and the kids, Hunter and Marla again, not even Broderick, then it would have been okay. I don’t think I’d miss Cobb even – as long as I was with Eames. The prospect of no more awkward dinners with Dom’s mother talking about how she knew single girls she could set me up with, Mal having her eerily sharp eyes on me and Phillipa spraying her baby food over my new Hugo Boss suit across the table was admittedly inviting.

 

It would be hard but I would forget how I had fucked up the moment I had seen Eames getting shot. I would make peace with the memory of how I had panicked and prayed and apologised over his body _in a dream_ as he went down to the second level. That would be hard but I could manage it all. The feelings he aroused in me were so powerful that they would engulf anything as long as I got to be close to him.

 

But from the first moment I had given in to Eames, I had known a vast black terror and it seized me then. I stood immobile, my body turned to stone, not even moving a finger as I saw that look in his eyes.

 

I waited too long, frightened of everything I wanted. And then the moment was gone.

 

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

 

Those were Victor Eames’ last words to me for, what I had hopelessly assumed then, a lifetime.

 

But lifetimes are neither as long as I had presumed them to be nor as short as they seemed to Cobb when he went back to living his happy life with Mal.

 

 

-

 

 

He looks like a little monkey, _Arthur thought as he held the newborn in his arms. James, they had named him, after their fathers. James Stephen Cobb. It was a little awkward at first but his tiny face and his tiny fists and his tiny body in his arms warmed Arthur to his core._ He’s a beautiful little baby monkey.

_“Dom wants you to be his godfather,” said Mal. Arthur glanced towards her and then looked down at the baby again. He gave a little baby yawn, opening his cute little toothless mouth wide open and Arthur held him closer, feeling protective._

_“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’d be no good as a godfather.” Arthur sat down on the chair next to Mal’s bed and caressed one soft chubby cheek with his fingertip. “Dom is just being hormonal – having a new baby and all.”_

_Mal’s silvery laugh made Arthur smile even more goofily. Dom had taken Phillipa down to the McDonald’s next block to get her some lunch. She had been a little moody ever since she saw the new baby. Dom wanted to let her know that she didn’t have to worry about not being Mommy and Daddy’s little princess and was pampering her as much as he could so Mal could rest._

_“I told him not to scare you with that kind of commitment. I’d trust you with James and Phillipa whether you were officially named their godfather or not.”_

_Arthur was silent as he tickled little James’ sole when he kicked out his legs. James made a small sound and put his fist inside his mouth. Arthur gently tugged his little hand away from his mouth but stopped when James made a noise in protest._

_“Arthur,” Mal said gently and Arthur glanced at her. “You know if anything is the matter, then Dom would_ want _to help you out. If it is just a sympathetic listener you need, I’d want you to come and talk to me.”_

_Arthur gave her a thin smile and let James hold his finger in one of his little fists. “James is the baby here, Mal, not me,” he chuckled. The sound made James move around Arthur’s finger as he waved his arm._

_He couldn’t bring himself to lie about being okay. He could have – he always did – but right now, holding James, sitting next to an exhausted but happy Mal, it just didn’t seem right. But he did not want her to pry any deeper inside him. If he told her the whole story, he won’t have any qualms admitting even the queasy parts about how Eames had morphed into her husband as he kissed him. He knew Mal would understand. She might not like it – she had never liked it – but she would understand what had prompted Eames to try something asshole-ish like that. He could stand telling her about all of it, down to the dirtiest detail._

_But he couldn’t stand letting her know that he had rejected Eames when going to him had seemed all that his heart’s desires were made of. She would just passionately confirm what Arthur already knew, that he had made a giant mistake. She would insist that it wasn’t too late and she would want him to leave the comfort of being near Cobb and go seek out the conman._

_“Even James would agree that having a mom would do you good, Arthur.”_

_“I have a mom, Mal,” Arthur leaned down and nuzzled James’ tummy, making him squirm and kick out his small legs more._

_Mal made a sound of contempt. She had only recently met Marla and Hunter and being as perceptive as she was, she had understood at once what kind of situation Arthur had grown up in. Marla was religious and sincere. She had never missed a single meeting with Arthur’s teachers and she always made sure he ate well. However, Broderick and Arthur were just the orphaned kids of her husband’s brother and she had never been able to get over the fact that she herself would never give birth to her own flesh and blood. Broderick and Arthur had been poor replacements for her. She had always treated them right but she couldn’t love them as if they were her own._

_“She is nice,” Arthur said mildly. “Dad got diagnosed with leukaemia. She is just having a hard time with it.”_

_Mal gracefully held back any opinion she had about it. They sat in silence after that, only James’ baby sounds floating between them. Mal fell asleep after a while. Arthur waited till Dom returned with Phillipa and then told him that he was leaving for a job in Brisbane the next day._

_“Just be careful, Arthur, don’t take too many risks,” Dom said as he watched Phillipa interact hesitantly with James. “Lie low after a job even if you did well. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”_

_Arthur gave a noncommittal hum as he pulled on his coat._

_“Arthur,” Dom said, a little more sternly this time and looking straight at him, “be careful!”_

_Phillipa looked up at her daddy. Arthur smiled at her and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Phillipa will be the best big sister, won’t she?” he asked her as she hugged him._

_“She will,” Phillipa promised solemnly._

_Arthur kissed both her cheeks and then kissed James’ forehead._

_“I’ll be careful, Dom,” he told his best friend with tired eyes before picking up his bag and leaving the room, leaving behind the mirage of happiness that he let himself indulge in before returning back to the strange mix of desperation and bleakness his life had become after he had left Eames behind in Greece._

-

 

 

James was three when Mal threw herself off a building. She left behind a suicide note accusing Dom. I hadn’t seen them in a while but that sounded like shit to me. Dom would never do anything that would drive Mal to kill herself. There was something definitely wrong with the whole picture. When Dom turned up at my door, red-eyed, pale-faced, and told me he was going on run because that was the only way to stay out of prison, what else could I do but pack my bags as well?

 

When he explained to me that because of an experiment gone wrong, Mal had begun believing that the world she lived in wasn’t real, there was a moment when I did end up blaming Cobb for Mal’s death. It was just a moment and I knew it was irrational because Mal had ventured into dream share of her own will. There was no way Cobb was responsible for anything that had gone wrong with her. The first couple of weeks of our isolated trip were tense as we tried to come to term with Mal’s death. But we had stuck with each other for over ten years now and eventually, we were able to overcome that particular hurdle.

 

Dom and I, we weren’t regular work partners anymore. However, if the US was going to hunt him, they were going to make my life hell, too. Dom was my only regular employer. I had run a few illegal jobs on my own after that time in Greece. I was confident about the tracks I had covered but I didn’t want to let the system beat me into submission. They would find nothing they could use against me but I would have to stop doing the only thing I had learnt to do with my life if I wanted to carry on in the States. The only thing I had never fucked up.

 

But more importantly, how could I leave Dom alone? Yes, I had had a wild moment in a strange foreign land where I had wanted to damn Dom to his fate and fall into the arms of a complete stranger. But that was that and this was this. I had imagined leaving Cobb to Mal, to the world he had always wanted and created for himself. But I could never abandon him to a fate of working sleazy Dream share jobs just to keep himself alive while he found a way to get back to his children.

 

All these years, I had never worked with Eames again. Even when we were on the run, Cobb did not contact Eames. We made do with second rate forgers when we needed them. Cobb said that Eames was too dangerous. He wasn’t just an extractor and forger but a wanted criminal. It would only fuck things up for Cobb even more if he was being hunted down by people who had it in for Eames as well. He explained it to me when I casually mentioned once that we would need a really good forger on one of our jobs. Afterwards, I spent the night, trying to convince myself I wasn’t sourly disappointed. This being-on-the-run thing wasn’t for me, it was for Cobb.

 

Running around with Cobb wasn’t exactly fun. We still had our working dynamics wherein he would work out the plans and I would keep them a notch below full-blown bizarre while materializing the rest. Needless to say, this left no time for a proper social life. The easiest way to stand out was to fuck someone. Celibacy worked for Cobb because he was fixated on the PASIV when he wasn’t fixated on his children. Everything else had ceased to exist for him.

 

We shared rooms more times than not, even pretending to be a gay couple where it seemed to be the easier thing to do. I didn’t even feel remotely attracted to him anymore. We were close once, he and I, before Eames, before Mal, before I had turned twenty one. I had a case of hero-worshipping him and he always thrived on attention. I’ll never stop being grateful for the fact that he taught me the ropes in the business, that he gave me a chance.

 

But thirteen years down the line, our relationship was well past its peak. It won’t stop me from taking a bullet for him. But time and again, I wondered what life would have been like if I had given in to the madness in Greece and begged Eames to take me with him. I knew he would have caved if I had convinced him.

 

Hell, he had looked at me as if he wanted me to beg and convince him.

 

As the loneliness got worse, I thought of Eames more and more. Back in LA, I had managed to convince myself that he was just a page in the past; just a word even, given the fact that I had only known him for a couple of weeks. Mal had often talked about how it took a lifetime to know a person and build love and that when the first bloom of romance faded, love was what remained. It had all seemed singularly useless and annoying at that time. But I couldn’t help wondering how it would have been for Eames and me.

 

Because, of course, I had finally realised that I had fallen in love with him – at first sight, with the first touch. When I thought I would never have a chance of seeing him ever again, there seemed to be no danger in accepting that fact. There is something really honest about hopelessness. I couldn’t lose him anymore than I had already lost him. Between hiding from the US Justice Department and executing illegal dream share jobs, there was hardly enough time for me to brood over the fact that I was in love with someone who would never figure in my life again.

 

Moreover, I discovered that I wasn’t a pining sort of man, not in the traditional sense of the word. Of course, I missed him. Dream share workers were such a small community, that it won’t really be difficult for me to make our paths cross, despite of Cobb’s wariness regarding Eames. For a few months, I convinced myself that Dom was right and that keeping my distance from Eames was right for me, too. I tried not to pay attention to any stray mentions of Eames while conversing with someone from the dream share community. We always had a third partner to help us out with the jobs – an architect. Cobb never explained why he had me hunting for architects but I suspected that it was because Mal tended to show up in our extractions out of nowhere. A recurring projection always had the potential for destroying a perfectly simple job. But if Cobb didn’t know the layout, then Mal didn’t, either.

 

After I had returned from Greece, I would sometimes seek out any bit of news I could gather about Eames. When it hurt too much to find out about Eames, I would stop. Then the cycle would repeat itself all over again. Love made people do crazy things (I am a quick learner and Dom-Mal fiasco had more than enough to teach me). These feelings I harboured for Eames were still a giant stretch of nothingness for me.

 

The memories I had of him remained startlingly clear in my head, though. I could drop into the bed exhausted and feel the comfortable weight of his body against mine as I drifted off to sleep. One would think that we had spent a lifetime together and not just a week. In fact, such strong memory is supposed to be a product of repetitions but somehow, I was defying my body’s physiology. Or maybe I just thought of those nights over and over so much that I could fool myself to believe it was all real again at any time I closed my eyes.

 

But then I realised that I hadn’t just stopped at obsessively thinking about Eames. Sometimes I would stay awake all night and into the early hours of the morning, using my laptop as the only link between me and Eames. I had all sorts of resources at my disposal and at any given time, I was developing a knack of pinpointing where Eames would be and who he would be working with. I found that there were long stretches of time when he disappeared – three to five weeks – but he always emerged again. And I could always tell when he did. It wasn’t long before I could trace him during his disappearances, too, and I was dazed when I realised that he always went back to the same place.

 

I had discovered Eames’ _home_.

 

I tried to cover the fact that I was stalking Eames by stalking other reputedly dangerous dream share workers as well. Of course, Cobb was the most dangerous of them all but I had the privilege of being right next to him most of the time. I had a laptop of my own but even so Cobb chanced upon my database one day. I broke into a sweat as he browsed through it idly, hating myself for having this kind of reaction.

 

My worries were for nought. Cobb was thrilled and told me that I had really outdone myself. He was never vociferous with praise even though I know he appreciated the work I did for him. I must have impressed him something good for him to have that reaction.

 

It was when Eames was in Mombasa that Cobb brought home the Cobol Engineering job. Mombasa was a Cobol hot ground. No doubt I was making random associations just because of the overabundance of information there was in my head, but it felt ominous even then. The job had absolutely no need for a forger though.

 

To say that we fucked it up was an understatement. Cobb was the best architect in the business but because of Mal, he couldn’t design the layouts anymore. Hiring good architects was a continuously difficult enterprise despite my extensive database on dream share workers. Good architects were usually law-abiding civilians. The ones that were seedy enough to work with us turned out to be lousy rats like Nash. Of course, there were exceptions at times but this was the general norm. It was the first job where we had failed so spectacularly. The only place I could think of where Cobol Engineering couldn’t come ruining my life was the States.

 

However, if I thought escaping thug corporate men was bad, falling into the hands of crazy business kingpins who knew just which carrot to dangle in front of Cobb was worse.

 

Inception – right.

 

Of course, I knew what inception was. It was the epitome of dream share achievement. The one thing which no one had ever done but quite a lot had messed up trying. It was common sense that if you wanted a job to go well, then you didn’t try inception. It was like putting a tight rope between the Twin Towers and walking it to and fro. Yeah, so there was a French guy in the seventies who had done it but he was the only one in the history. If you wanted to guarantee success, you put up your tight rope between two poles in a circus where it belonged.

 

I tried to convince Cobb that it would be the proverbial straw that would break the camel’s back. We had been getting away with some crazy things but this was so bizarre, it shot right off the scale – there was no accounting for how crazy this was. And what if everything went south with a man like this megalomaniac Jap? No way.

 

But Cobb with the promise of reuniting with his children was an unreasonable Cobb even if I was the one dealing with him. I knew there was no stopping him anymore. Moreover, if he was going to seriously have a go at performing inception, then I was going to be right there with him. I won’t even be in dream share if I didn’t share _some_ of his madness for the more adventurous side of life. To be fair, if there was anyone in the business who had a good chance of pulling off inception, then it was Cobb.

 

He brought in a French architecture student as our new architect. I know his penchant for giving a complete novice and a stranger a chance and yes, she was good right from the start but that was a hell of a risk to take. And just when I was getting my head around the idea of that perky midget being our new architect, he dropped the bomb.

 

We needed _Eames_ on our team, of all people.

 

Not that the idea hadn’t crossed my mind as soon as the word ‘inception’ had slipped out of Saito’s mouth. Yes, I put all my faith and energy in Cobb, but I would be lying if I didn’t keep thinking that we were slightly out of depth here and having Eames on the team was the one guarantee that the job won’t be a complete failure. I had only worked with him once before but he had impressed me immensely with his intelligence and skills. I had experienced firsthand his ability to keep his head under any kind of situation and pull off a job well. My desire to join forces with him had been largely motivated by my insane attraction to him but there was also a part of me which was thrilled by his unique talents. Yes, he was a thief, a forger, a cheating gambler – all in all, a con artist. But he was one of the best con artists out there. He had a gift and he was bloody smart. And he had combined both of those with focused and hard work to hone his skills to perfection. I had heard accounts of his work from people who had been on jobs with him. Sometimes, he added an artistic flourish if the job was too simple. At other times, he was able to manoeuvre around a difficult job with graceful simplicity.

 

Eames was an artist at his core. And while unpredictable, he never failed to amaze. Inception was going to be something more than a corporate crime. And it needed a man who treated his work as something more than a way to get back to his children.

 

Nevertheless, as Cobb declared out of nowhere that he was going to go and bring in Eames, my stomach twisted into knots the way it hadn’t done in a long time – not since the last time I had seen Eames, I realised.

 

“There’s plenty of good thieves,” I told Cobb, as if I didn’t already know that Eames was much more than a good thief.

 

Cobb wasn’t swayed. He was going to go to Mombasa, the backyard of Cobol Engineering who had a price on his head, and bring back Eames.

 

I threw myself into working with Ariadne. It was good that inception was taking such a lot of work because I didn’t want even a spare moment to consider how the one thing, to which I had resigned my life, was going to flip a hundred and eighty degrees. Eames wasn’t going to be the lost love of my life anymore. He was going to barge right back in and I was going to stand there and face him every single day for as long as it took to get the job done.

 

Back then, when Eames had cupped my neck and kissed the corner of my lips, and bid me good night like he meant to say goodbye, he had looked into my eyes before he turned and I had seen pain – worse than the pain that he had felt back in John Eliopoulos’ extraction. It had broken me. I knew I was the reason for it and it had torn me up in every which way that had mattered. I was wrecked and that was supposed to be the end of that chapter in my life. I was never supposed to see him again, and learn to live with my shattered heart for the rest of my life when I realised that I had lost the only person I had ever loved in my life.

 

It hadn’t been easy but I had learnt to live with it. It had changed me a lot, too. Maybe not in a very visible, I-pierced-my-nasal-septum-and-dyed-my-hair-green kind of way but I was a different man. I grew hard but I learnt to care about people. I grew more reckless but I learnt to push my limits. I called Broderick whenever it was safe to contact him and kept up with his life. I risked my life going to the States every few months just so Hunter and Marla won’t have to worry about what was going on with me.

 

I cannot explain what all of it had to do with the fact that I had broken my heart over Eames that night but I know it does. There was me before and there was me now. And Eames was the turning point. At first, I hadn’t wanted to face that. The overwhelming sense of failure, the feeling that I had disappointed and lost Eames, it was a hellish torture. Pulling myself out of that quagmire of desperation, depression and hopelessness had made me the man I was today.

 

Knowing that I would never have to face Eames had helped in its own funny way. It hurt but I would grit my teeth and bear it because I deserved it. Also, it was much easier than facing Eames and seeing that he was disappointed in me, that he was hurt that I hadn’t chosen him when he had risked giving me a choice. Seeing pain in Eames’ eyes was the worst thing for me. This isn’t poetical. It is pragmatic experience.

 

He had still ended up calling me that one time before I had gone on run with Cobb. What would he have said if I had been home to pick up his call? Maybe he would have disconnected without speaking at all. Maybe he would have said the exact same kind of things. I didn’t want to imagine that he had called so that we could ‘meet up’. There was too much hope in that kind of suggestion. Hope wasn’t for the likes of me. Maybe I had had subconscious motivation for not calling Eames back promptly after he had left that voicemail. I couldn’t bear to live with myself if I ended up hurting him like that again.

 

I might have been driving myself sick with the thought that the man who had affected me so much after a brief meeting three years ago was going to drop back into my life right in the middle of the most difficult and dangerous job hitherto but it really wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be – or good.

 

It was – calm. And that was the best thing I could have expected it to be.

 

Cobb was returning to Paris with Eames, Yusuf and Saito on a Wednesday morning and Eames sauntered in after the other three in a mismatched suit, hair slicked and parted, and a gold pocket watch dangling from his belt – what? I had a hysterical moment where I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time but it was just a very tiny moment. He looked different from how he had back in Greece, a little rounder around the edges but still brazen and self-confident.

 

“Arthur,” he said by way of greeting as he caught me staring at him.

 

“Mr Eames,” I replied, and my voice came out so polite and professional, I congratulated myself mentally for it.

 

Of course, he had changed over the years. Hell, I had changed a lot over the years, as well. I would soon be twenty nine and I never compromised on wearing a tie anymore. Of course, it helped that air conditioning was more popular now than it had been before and more environment-friendly. He had been to Sydney, studying the situation at the Fischer’s home. I felt a gush of giddy fan-like admiration just thinking how he must have accomplished _that_. Not only that, he had an actual, workable idea about how we could perform inception. See? We needed this man on our team, pocket watch and all.

 

Seriously, what was the deal with the pocket watch? Was it even functional?

 

There was another man Cobb had brought back from Kenya, Yusuf. He seemed to be good buddies with Eames and I remembered talking to Cobb over phone before and he had mentioned that Eames had been the one who had brought Yusuf into the team.

 

I didn’t know I was capable of jealousy before. Fifteen minutes in the same room with him, and Eames was already serving as the teaching tool I could use to learn new things about myself. I told myself to stuff it and concentrate on the job. If there was ever a job I couldn’t afford to fuck up, this was it.

 

Moreover, Eames barely treated me as anything more than a passing acquaintance. I hadn’t even caught him even so much as sneaking a glance at me. I’d have known. I had eyes for no one in the room except him. I was straining to make sure that it wasn’t very obvious but how could I resist? It was Eames. And he was here, with me. He was here with five other people, actually, but one of them was me, so with me, as well.

 

I was holding the turmoil behind the barricades pretty well and Eames was treating me just like a professional colleague (no sexual innuendos forthcoming). That helped, sort of. So this was how it was going to be. Things in the past were going to remain in the past. Okay, I could work with that. So I felt a dead weight in the pit of my stomach when I realised that because I had gotten my hopes up after that phone call of his. But it was okay if that had meant nothing at all. This was okay. This was better than him still looking like I had gorged his heart out with a knife. Anything was better than seeing the hurt in his eyes.

 

My delusions of a truce did not last long.

 

“Your condescension, _as always_ , is much appreciated, Arthur. Thank you.”

 

Wait, what?

 

I had been hooked on to his every word, dazzled by how he had already brought an impossible job into the zone of ‘Look, this is how we make this simple so that we actually have a shot at it’. I knew this is why we couldn’t do it without him. I was impressed. There had been nothing sardonic about it – nothing _condescending_.

 

So how come I had hit a nerve? It was unreasonable.

 

The temperature in the warehouse dropped perceptibly after that. I was so dumb to think that there would be any sort of good feeling left between us after that. So we were hot between sheets, our chemistry in bed good enough to wank off to and that made us attached. Bloody Mal and her ideas probably swayed me to read more into it than that.

 

Eames had obviously decided that our time back in Greece was just a passing fluke and his only memory of me seemed to be the fact that I lacked certain qualities dream share workers were supposed to have. I knew Eames didn’t think I was cut out for this. I could read it in his subtle sneers and not-so-subtle way of ignoring me afterwards.

 

By the time we closed that night, I think we made everyone uncomfortable with how thick the tension was between us. Well, everyone, except Yusuf, who was really nice and fun to talk to and infinitely better than that moron, Eames. My jealousy towards him was forgotten in my peevishness over Eames.

 

“Would you like to accompany us for a drink, Arthur?” asked Yusuf as I hurried inside the hotel building, brushing the water from my coat. It had begun raining while we were on our way back from the warehouse. I’d made a quick trip to the drugstore nearby to get a refill on my prescription and I found Yusuf waiting for me in the lobby, Eames lingering some distance behind him. Cobb had stayed back saying he needed to run some experiments and Ariadne was still working on her totem. I hadn’t noticed when Saito had disappeared.

 

Eames snorted.

 

“Of course, Yusuf,” I said stubbornly, ignoring Eames.

 

I hated myself as I ended up ordering a beer. I hadn’t had a beer in ages. In fact, the last I had ordered it, I still couldn’t recall if I had drunk it or not.

 

“Always a beer man, our Arthur here,” Eames observed as he sipped on his whiskey.

 

Because I couldn’t punch him in the face outright, I threw him my most withering glare and then pointedly ignored him. Yusuf was actually an interesting man. He had some bizarre stories and learning about how the dream share world operated in the third world was educative.

 

I felt the edge of a shoe against my calf. I choked on my beer and refused to look at Eames, focusing on convincing Yusuf that I was okay and yes, maybe I should retire early for the night because I was obviously too exhausted to even drink beer without inhaling it.

 

I was fumbling through my bag for my cardkey when the elevator to my floor dinged open again and Eames strolled down the corridor, still in that evil suit, pocket watch still on. To my credit, my hands were steady, I didn’t even turn to look at him and I was no longer dripping beer from my nose.

 

But I didn’t push the key into its slot soon enough because my treacherous body couldn’t help waiting for him to come stand next to me like I knew he would. He had his hands in his pocket as he leaned carelessly against the door to my room, mere inches between us.

 

“Fancy a nightcap, pet?”

 

I messed up my turn at snorting and sounded more like a whimpering wet kitten. Even I wasn’t sure if it was a yes or no or what the fuck till Eames took my hand, swiped the key card, pushed open the door and closed it behind us.

 

“That was a horrible pick up line,” I said, my throat papery dry as the lights in the room came on. I reached to the side to dim them down but Eames stayed my hand.

 

“It worked just fine, though, didn’t it?” Eames said, bringing my hand to his lips. I could feel the rush of emotions threatening to break the barriers holding them back.

 

I stared at his plush pink lips, still hovering over my fingers. I tugged back my hand from his grip and then grasped his jaw as I pushed our bodies together, backing him up against the door. He had a grating smirk on his face and I crashed our lips together, sinking my nails into his cheek as I kissed him hard, my body tense with arousal.

 

His hands gripped my butt, squeezing and rubbing assertively as if he didn’t even care about the barrier of clothing between us.

 

“Hello to you, too, darling,” he breathed against my mouth as the kiss broke, his warm, alcoholic breath mingling with mine. At close quarters, with the prim ceiling lights, I could make out all the lines around his eyes and between his brows as he smiled. I tilted my head and dragged my tongue along his stubbly cheek, bit into the skin beneath his ear.

 

“You remind me of a pup I once had, darling,” he said, trying to maintain his playful front. But I could hear him cracking as I dragged my tongue down from his jaw, licking and sucking along a line down his neck. I was tethering at the edge myself but I was even more desperate to have him unravel beneath me. His smugness and sauciness had me so mad at him; I refused to submit to his will. 

 

“Yeah?” I rasped out, tugging and pulling at his shirt, too frenzied to work on each button one by one. “He wanted to bite your flesh off your body too?” I bite into his collarbone to emphasize my point, my cock straining harder against its confines as I tasted his salty skin. It made me headier and I sucked on the mark as I rubbed my fingers along his chest and stomach. I wedged one thigh between his thick ones and rutted against him, needing that bit of relief from the friction as I prepared to hold out long enough to make him break first.

 

“A pup, pet,” he grasped my hair and pulled me back from his chest to look at my face, “not a man-eater.” A shiver ran down my spine, goose bumps rising up along my skin as I looked into his gleaming green eyes. He had that dangerous look in his eyes again, an intoxicating mix of want and fury and conflicting desires. There was something I knew about Eames. He might look easy-going and jolly and flippant as a butterfly but it was really just a façade to deflect from what a measured, controlling guy he was underneath. He absolutely hated relinquishing that control once he was stripped off the distracting psychedelic clothes and the suave, greasy manners.

 

When I had already seen him lay bare his heart before me, his distractions won’t work against me.

 

I pinched his sides where his muscles felt thicker than before and a muscle twitched under his right eye.

 

“Maybe you’re growing old, Mr Eames,” I opened up his belt and zipped down his fly, acutely aware of how his body was heaving with each breath, “and your memory fools you.” My fingertips pushed through the curly pubic hair and brushed against his erect cock, trapped under his briefs. His grip on my hair tightened and I pushed my hand further to fondle his balls. “It fools you into thinking your man-eater was a puppy.”

 

He thrust his groin into my hand with a grunt and the remaining blood rushed away from my head and pooled in my pelvis. I was throbbing with need for him. But I had him in the palm of my hand – literally – and even though he looked like he could tip over the edge any moment now, his hold on my hair relaxed. He gripped my shoulder instead, his hold pleasantly hard to the point of pain, and bucked his hips forward, rocking against my thigh, begging for more of my touch on him.

 

I rewarded him with a hand on his cock, stroking the silky smooth hardness, pulling back the foreskin and thumbing along the head of his cock as it grew bigger. Eames groaned as I rubbed one of his nipples, the hand on my ass clawing into my butt cleft, digging in even through the firm fit of the trousers. I tried to lean in to mouth at his face but he tilted his head away from me, and tightened his hold on my shoulder.

 

“Let me,” I told him roughly, jacking him off in hard, firm strokes. I pulled his pants further down over his butt so that they dropped to the floor, pooling around his ankles and took his sac in my other hand. His eyes glazed over as he glanced at me. He was breathing harder, his neck and inked upper body, livid and flushed.

 

His eyes shut as he let go of my shoulder and I closed the inches between us to put my mouth on his cheeks and neck. I grazed my teeth over the grainy growth over his jaw, my senses filled with the scent of his musk and cologne. I rocked my taut bulge against my own forearm as I kept jerking off Eames, feeling my briefs stain with my pre-cum. Eames lodged a hand between my thighs from behind and I licked all over one ear before sucking viciously on a stretch of exposed neck. I could feel the tremors run through his body and stroked faster and faster, reaching behind his sac and rubbing on the bit of skin I could reach. He shuddered and then gave a raspy groan, rumbling from his stomach and through his chest as he came over his stomach and my shirt, his fingers flexing and squeezing and working torture on my butt.

 

My body climaxed despite my will, wanting nothing more than to join Eames in his orgasm.

 

I came in my pants just from jerking off Eames and tasting his skin and having his hand on my clothed ass. It would be pitiful if it wasn’t so bloody amazing I could melt in a puddle right there – and for some moments it was nothing but absolute bliss.

 

Then Eames said, “Always wanted to make you come with all of your pretty clothes still on, darling,” his voice dark velvet against my hair and it broke the spell of my euphoric high.

 

I flexed my calf muscles and let go of his cock. I wobbled a little on my feet but turned away from him, the flush hot upon my cheeks and neck as I started to remove my clothes. I had missed the sex with him so much, I had turned into a frigging teenager the second he had his hands on me. I had forgotten all about my plans to make Eames submit to my will. I had thought that he had let me take the lead when, really, he had easily managed to push me over the brink with the smallest sign of surrender.

 

“Darling,” said Eames, taking my hand and tugging me around so that I was facing him again, “Arthur, surely you won’t begrudge an _old_ man his fantasies...”

 

He had a stupid, content grin on his face. His eyes looked relaxed and amused. He wasn’t that drunk – he had barely finished his whiskey. He brought up my hand to his lips and licked some of his own semen off my fingers.

 

I pulled back my hand as if it burned. It felt like it burned. My whole body was on fire. Neither the release nor the humiliation of it had quenched the desire I held for him. They had fanned the fires even more but I couldn’t give in. I would not give in. I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore and turned and headed further inside the room. It wasn’t that big a room and I could only walk towards the bed.

 

“You need to get out of here,” I told him, my voice trembling shamefully. I was grasping at straws, all the while expecting him to tear down the last of my remaining barriers. I wanted to resist him because I wanted some kind of power over him but equally, I wanted him to violate all my defences. As I undressed, my body shivered with the anticipation of Eames ignoring my words and coming up behind me, enveloping me in an embrace that would melt me like no one else ever could.

 

He didn’t.

 

I heard the sounds of him dressing up again. I waited till I heard the door close behind him, the moments stretching out in my agony. Once I had shut out the lights and drowned the room in darkness, I got into the bed and for the first time I ever remembered, I gave in to my urge to cry my heart out.

 

It got really easy afterwards because something switched off inside me big time and I was little better than a robot.

 

While I do know what kind of things I did and what work I was concentrating on, I couldn’t really give a detailed account of it. In fact, I could only tell someone about it while looking at the notes I made in my pocket diary but I don’t remember it lucidly at all. Emotionally, I had taken such a hit that I had dried up or frozen. Either way, there was no more of the storm and consequently, no more need to hold back, erect barricades or worry if I was hiding my reactions well enough. I know that the emotional and the cognitive are closely interlinked and shutting off my emotions like that had done a number on my brain as well. Back then, I didn’t have enough brain power to understand simple things let alone analyse my actions and emotions.

 

As long as I didn’t feel anything at all, that was all I needed to survive.

 

On my part, I assumed there was mindless grunt work to be done, letting Cobb and Eames take the lead in fleshing out our path. My work was more textbook-based than creative. I just had to do what I had done over a hundred times before. Make detailed and specific lists, follow them to the word. It irked me when someone (usually Eames) won’t give me anything specific to work with. That was the most reaction and emotion I had at that time. If anyone noticed that I was any different than usual, they did not mention it.

 

Not even Eames.

 

In fact, Eames didn’t even seem like he remembered that I had made him leave for a second time. Rather than turn sour, he only seemed to find excuses to talk to me even more or linger around my workspace when he had nothing better to do. I spoke no more than absolutely necessary but he always found something to laugh about at my expense. If I was myself, I would either have reciprocated in kind or at least gotten annoyed over it. Secretly, I would have enjoyed the attention from him. But I was numb, I felt nothing. My lack of response would not deter him from being juvenile though. He just seemed to get off on the exasperated looks or occasional glare I’d throw him.

 

Afterwards, when I had the leisure for it, I did wonder if I hadn’t been such a zombie during those stages, would I have missed the very basic fact that Robert Fischer’s mind had been militarised? I would definitely have run background checks on Yusuf and discovered that he had come out of Mombasa so eagerly not out of any sense of friendship towards Eames but because he was running from loan sharks. I would have kept an eye on him and noticed when Cobb pulled him aside and talked him into taking the crazy risks he did. There was a reason why no one had done three levels before and I would have combed through Yusuf’s notes till I discovered the flaw in it which threatened to throw us into Limbo. I won’t have just taken his ‘word’ for it had ‘no risks’. I’d have sensed that Ariadne knew more about Cobb than she was letting on and although she had an obvious schoolgirl crush on Crazy Cobb, I would have devised a way to wheedle it out of her.

 

Everything that went wrong once we were in Fischer’s head? Yeah, it was my job to have made sure that it didn’t happen.

 

But I was a pathetic man, nearing thirty, and on a job which could have cost me my life, I had chosen to have a complete mental shutdown just so I could spare myself from dealing with my emotions in a mature manner and messed up big time.

 

“Did you have to promise Eames your share to drag him here?” I had asked Cobb once.

 

Cobb gave me a funny look. “No, why would I?”

 

“I don’t know,” I said, glancing over to the other end of the warehouse where Ariadne and Eames lay on the pool chairs. Ariadne was teaching Eames to build his level. “He’s cautious, isn’t he? If word gets out to Cobol Engineering that he has been working with you, then they will make it impossible for him to return to Mombasa.”

 

Cobb went back to looking through the file he had been before with a sigh of relief. I didn’t care to think what he was relieved over. “Oh, he threw caution to the wind the moment I told him I was working with you,” he said. “Inception in itself is worth two of Cobol Engineering but I was betting I would seal the deal if he knew you were here.”

 

I came _this_ close to stumbling upon the fact that Cobb had, in fact, promised his whole share to someone else – Yusuf. Instead, the only thought in my head was ‘Cobb knew I fucked Eames’. It was right in the middle of the time when I was in a state of complete emotional stupor which had also frozen my brain. I had nothing to say to the fact that Eames had even made enemies with Cobol Engineering at the prospect of working with me.

 

What really woke me up was going under. Ironic, isn’t it?

 

I had had dream runs while preparing for the actual inception. But there was nothing like being under on a job. I might have had a lot of messy issues of my own but I am rather proud of the fact that I keep them under wraps pretty well. Dealing with emotions by shutting them up, just means that my subconscious is lacking when I go under – not a problem. Freight trains through the middle of the city? Definitely a problem, Cobb.

 

Going under with that much Somnacin in my system was especially liberating. Moreover, things were unravelling so fast that I had no time to think. One moment, the plan was to kidnap Fischer and take him to the abandoned garage. The next moment, we were being shot at. That jolted out the last of my apathy. There were few things I hated more than gunfire in the vicinity of Eames.

 

Motherfuckers.

 

This time I was prepared. I poured my vindictiveness into bringing down the bastards, making sure that I worked with Eames. The best way I could protect him was to keep moving to get us out of the roads as fast as I could and make sure that they did not have a clear shot at Eames – or Eames shot them before they got him. My heart was racing like crazy but I wasn’t a novice at this anymore. I had a handle on things.

 

“Are you alright?” I yelled at him, willing myself to swallow down the panic.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, I’m okay,” he reassured me.

 

The relief was short-lived because there was still a man shot though – the bloody tourist.

 

The alarm bells didn’t go off till we got off the war zone. Militarised projections. My research had missed militarised projections. Fuck. This was one big mistake. It was basics to check for militarisation. How had I missed that on my research? Or had it shown up but I had been too busy with my personal teen-girl-level emotional problems to pay attention to it?

 

Cobb was furious and he had every reason to be. But the party had begun and we had no time for blame games. Saito was in agony. A wave of nausea swept over me. I wasn’t going to do this again. He didn’t need to be here, not like Eames had back in the Greek job. Eames pulled out his gun, apparently ready to do what I had just been thinking.

 

Then Cobb blew the party whistle he had kept secret all along.

 

We couldn’t kill the dying man in pain because he won’t wake up, he would be stuck in _Limbo_. How is that for fun?

 

So I was a lousy point man, my mistake. But Cobb was a lousy human being and don’t even get me started on bloody Yusuf. Who the fuck had thought that performing a three-level deep inception was a good idea? Oh yes, Dominick Fucking Cobb. And everything he said about us going deeper made perfect sense.

 

I came this close to hating that man, I swear.

 

Of course, there is something about life or limbo situations that get your adrenaline pumping so hard that it is enough to drive you forward through the worst of situations and come out a winner. But I would be overestimating Cobb’s powers to get my adrenaline going with his antics if I thought it was just that which had me rifling through the rest of the job, doing everything I could to make up for my shortcomings topside. Eames’ well-being depended on me like never before. I had to do anything, everything I could to make sure that Eames didn’t end up in limbo. He was the only one here who had done what had been asked for him and delivered at every point. He was the only one who hadn’t brought in any kind of threats or issues which would endanger our lives. In fact, he had put his neck on the line with Cobol Engineering, teaming up with Cobb.

 

And if Cobb was still to be trusted after the stunt he had pulled, it seemed like Eames had done this, at least in part, because of me. Cobb had lured him into the job declaring that I would be on the team as well. Eames will surely think about things twice now when he hears that line again.

 

Down there, Eames’ presence strengthened me. If it was for him, I could do _anything_. I would do anything.

 

We had managed to get Fischer in the second level.

 

“Security is going to run you down hard,” said Eames as he prepared to go in deeper.

 

I didn’t like the apprehension in his voice. I had something to prove to him. I needed to get him to trust me. I needed to stop being the boy that the man in him always felt he needed to protect.

 

“Then I will lead them on a merry chase,” I replied as I fixed the needle for him.

 

“Just be back in time for the kick.”

 

Yes, we would never stand as equals till I proved that I was better than his estimation of me. And unless we stood equal, I couldn’t stop rejecting him, I couldn’t stop rejecting my own feelings for him. I needed to do this for him, for me, for us.

 

“Go to sleep, Mr Eames,” I told him, looking into his blue eyes. I watched them fall shut as the Somnacin hit him.

 

_Trust me, Mr Eames._

 

I lay still on my seat once I was back on the plane, staring at the overhead luggage compartment before glancing out of the window. I fished out my dice and weighed it in my palm before rolling it on my thigh over and over a few times; always six.

 

I felt a broad hand on my arm and the gentle tug of the needle being pulled out.

 

Eames was smiling down at me. No sarcasm, no teasing. There was the gladness at having made out of that limbo-trap without his brain turning to scrambled eggs and a fierce pride at a job well done. I could see the shine in his eyes. The inception had taken seed – we had been successful. There was that, and there was something more. He took my hand in his as he rolled down my shirt sleeve and I saw his eyes flicker towards the dice in my hand. His smile deepened. I held onto his hand tighter than I meant to.

 

“Good job,” he said quietly, just loud enough for my ears.

 

And then he was back in his seat.

 

After that, I couldn’t stop smiling.

 

It felt like the happiest ending I could hope for, getting down at LAX with my mind intact. I had helped perform the first inception in the history of dream share and finally, finally gotten Cobb back to the munchkins.

 

I did not know where Eames meant to go from there and I did not dare to ask even though I had resolved the one thing that had always held me back from him. The paralysis that had set into my emotions and thoughts since the night in Paris when I had asked Eames to leave had been lifted. My accomplishment had healed the wounds I had been covering with desperation and hopelessness before.

 

However, there was no turning back from here. There was no going back. There was nowhere to return to, I could only go forward. This was all I could have salvaged from our situation. I could forgive myself for hurting him and if I ever met him again, you could be sure it would be as equals now.

 

I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to him. He disappeared when I was still getting my luggage from the conveyor belt.

 

I walked out into the sunny California day, my heart lighter than it had been in ages.

 

Tomorrow, when I’d wake up at six in the morning, I would neither be a blank slate nor an agonised soul. I had a reason to be better than that and I did not know what tomorrow would bring but I wasn’t scared of it anymore.

 

And was I still in love with Victor Eames?

 

You bet I was.

 

Even harder than before, I guarantee.

 

From the first moment I saw him, till now and till the end of time, Eames will be ‘the one’ for me. It is not something I can ever stop or wake up from. Maybe I would see him again even though right now, it feels like I won’t. Maybe I could even find someone else to love, now that I wasn’t so averse to the idea.

 

But Eames would always hold a place in my heart that no one else ever would.

 

Before anything else, I would always know that I love Victor Eames and that, for the rest of my life, will remain my most important reality.

 

 

-

 

 

_Arthur returns home to a blinking phone._

_“Wait a minute,” he tells Gayle who wraps his arms around his waist and begins kissing his neck as soon as they are inside his house. “I need to check my messages.” He takes hold of the dreadlocks and tugs back Gayle’s head, ignoring the whining, “Seriously, man?” and walks over to the telephone._

_There are four voicemails. He skips the ones from Finn because if it was really that urgent, Finn had his cell number – he had stolen it from Arthur when Arthur was asleep. The third is from Mrs Griffith, his new next door neighbour, to remind him that he absolutely must attend the barbeque party tomorrow. The last is a familiar number but disappointing all the same. It is Broderick._

_“Hey, Arthur,” says Broderick. Broderick never called him “Artie” and as a consequence, Arthur was never “Art” or “Artie”. He has always been Arthur. “I’m back in LA – the gig in New York didn’t work out.” He sounds so tired Arthur feels strange as if it isn’t even Broderick’s voice anymore. “So yeah,” he says and hangs up. Arthur feels worry bubble up in his chest. Broderick is his only sibling in the world and he had lost a leg and half his fingers in the Iraq war. Once he had learnt to use his prostheses, Broderick had moved out of Arthur’s home and left LA, travelling to one place and then another, taking on odd jobs. They had grown apart again._

_“You leaving me here all horny, Arthur,” Gayle says against his neck as he starts to pull off Arthur’s pants._

_“Get off me for a moment, will you?” Arthur pushes him away as he dials Broderick back and waits for him to pick up the phone. “Need to talk to my brother.”_

_Gayle complies, sensing the seriousness and urgency in Arthur’s tone._

_“Broderick?” Arthur asks as the call is answered on the fifth ring._

_“Arthur,” Broderick’s tone is guarded. “Hey.”_

_“Hey. I just got back home.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_There is an awkward pause. Arthur can hear the TV in the background._

_“Where are you staying, Broddie?”_

_“I’m crashing at a friend’s. The gig that man offered in New York? Seems like it was all a big farce. Wasted my money for nothing,” Broderick laughs sardonically and sounds more like himself again._

_“The bastard,” Arthur says loyally. “I’ll come meet you tomorrow. Give me the address.” He tells him his latest cell phone number. Arthur’s cell phone numbers change a lot. Earlier, he won’t keep one on himself unless he needed it during a job. Now, he is taking a sabbatical and got one just for the heck of it._

_Broderick asks Arthur to meet him at a diner the next evening near his friend’s apartment where he is crashing for now._

_He is already waiting for him at a booth when Arthur gets there fifteen minutes before time._

_“Look at you,” says Broderick when he sees Arthur, “looking right like you walked out of one of your CIA jobs.”_

_Arthur gets into the booth opposite him. “I’m not CIA, Broddie, I told you that before.” He gets a cup of coffee and then orders a chicken salad because he hasn’t eaten anything all day. Gayle had stayed the night and fled early in the morning seeing the state of Arthur’s kitchen. Not that Arthur minded Gayle fleeing but it was a bit rude of him to ditch him before a round of morning sex just because he was hungry. But then that was why he’d picked up Gayle. Gayle was about as commitment-phobic and selfish as Arthur._

_“Well, it’s a shame that you’re not then,” Broderick replied, “they could use someone like you.” He bit into his cheeseburger and chewed on it for a while._

_They stayed silent after that. However, they were blood brothers and the silence was far from uncomfortable. Arthur’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he ignored it. The only person who ever contacted him on it was Finn. Arthur didn’t want to know if Finn had somehow learnt that Arthur had gone home with Gayle last night._

_“You should come stay with me,” Arthur says plainly at last when he is nearly done with his salad, “till you find a place of your own.”_  
  


_Broderick burps and wipes his mouth._

_“I’m going to Alaska.”_

_Arthur stares at him, flabbergasted. Of course, they haven’t been as much in contact as they were in the days after Broderick had started recovering from his wartime injuries. However, Arthur still knew something about what Broderick would be up to – or did he? His brother’s latest revelation would suggest otherwise._

_“Alaska,” Arthur repeats, sitting back and crossing his arms, “What’s in Alaska?”_

_Broderick looks at Arthur, his thin lips quirked to one side in a nostalgic smile as he recognises his little brother’s defensive pose. Broderick is bigger than Arthur, his hair lighter, almost a blonde brown. He takes after their birth mother. Arthur has black hair, like their father, like Hunter. But there is obvious resemblance between their features – identical set of dark eyes and noses, the similar curve of their lips and most importantly, a pair of matching dimples. Broderick has a harder forehead and a stronger, more assertive jaw line and a bigger chin. He is bigger boned and built more muscularly than the narrow and slim Arthur. But sitting in a diner, Arthur in a three piece Canali suit and Broderick in a black tee shirt, khaki jacket and jeans, they could easily be identified as brothers._

_“Well, I’ll find out once I reach there, right?” Broderick replies, sipping his coffee languidly._

_“Broddie!” Arthur is twenty nine and he doesn’t want to sound petulant but it is hard when he feels like he is going to lose yet another person in his life. First Eames, then Cobb. Of course, Broderick going to Alaska isn’t exactly like Eames and Cobb disappearing on him but Alaska isn’t like Florida or New York. Moreover, Broderick has no plans this time. He just wants to_ leave _._

_“I don’t know what’s in Alaska, Arthur,” Broderick chuckles and feels like ruffling Arthur’s carefully gelled back hair. He wears a glove on his hand with the prosthetic fingers and they flex slowly. “But I’m going to find it once I get there.”_

_Arthur sighs and gives up and goes back to finishing his salad._

_Broderick picks up the tab for both of them._

_“Mom lived in Alaska for a few years, you know,” Broderick says as they stand outside the diner, hands in pockets. Arthur knows that he isn’t talking about Marla._

_“I didn’t know that,” Arthur replies, glancing towards his black Land Rover. “How’d I even know that?” He pauses and glances back at Broderick. “How’d_ you _even know that?”_

_Broderick doesn’t explain. “Going to take the flight to Anchorage tomorrow,” he says instead._

And what then _, Arthur wants to ask,_ what the hell are you going to do in fucking Alaska?

_“Good luck,” Arthur replies, feeling the void inside him widen, “call me from Alaska some time.”_

_Arthur doesn’t remember his biological father or mother, not the way Broderick does. He has seen pictures of them and he can see how Broderick is more like their mother but it is all just superficial and meaningless to him. He didn’t know them. He knows Marla and Hunter. And he knows Broderick. He doesn’t really know anyone that well anymore but there is something about family ties that neither distance can fade nor time diminish._

_“Yeah,” Broderick glances at Arthur, “you doing okay, Arthur?”_

_Arthur thinks about Eames because he thinks about Eames every time someone enquires after his well being. He thinks about how he has been obsessively following the news of Fischer Morrow liquidation in papers. He thinks about Hunter, bald and weak after finishing his last round of chemotherapy. He thinks about Cobb, who must be happy being reunited with Phillipa and James but Arthur will never know that because Cobb has gone underground now without telling him about it._

_“I’m okay,” he says, fishing out his Rover keys from his pocket. “Call me from Alaska, Broddie. I mean it.”_

_Broderick grins, the dimples knocking a couple of years from his age. “I’ll send you exotic meat.”_

_Arthur shudders thinking that Broderick really might._

_-_


	2. What You Thought Was The End of the Story, Was Only Just the Beginning; And What You Thought was the Beginning was Actually the End

               

**Act II – What You Thought Was the End of the Story, Was Only Just the Beginning; And What You Thought Was the Beginning Was Actually the End**

 

 

_The rain is pouring in torrents, and no matter how Arthur tries to keep under the eaves of the sleeping shops or race across the open intersections, he is just too underdressed for the weather. He is drenched within seconds once the rain comes down full force._

_Arthur has a good memory for maps. His dream share training has taught him how to memorise entire cities. He knows which turns he needs to take and which lampposts to keep in mind while diving into the back alleys. He would admit it to no one but he has secretly used the PASIV to construct this part of the city in his dream. He has spied on it through Google maps and satellite images. He has garnered the finer details through more intimate pictures posted innocuously on networking sites and tagged for the world to see. The internet has become one hell of a resource these days. It is scary how much the reality matches his rehearsed dreams._

_By the time he stops in front of the brick coloured building and squints up at the rows of unlit windows, he is soaked to the bone and his teeth are chattering. He is standing under the shade of the fire-escape of the opposite apartment, more of the icy rain beating down on him from the right side, the stormy winds driving it into his face and front._

There’s just something about Eames and me that spells rain _, Arthur thinks as he darts across the road and climbs over the rickety gate. He could have broken down the flimsy lock with a kick but Arthur prefers to leave minimal traces of his visit. He has learnt the importance of leaving less of a mess to clean up later._

_His fingers are shaking so violently because of the cold that he briefly considers pressing the number 14 on the intercom system and telling Eames ‘_ please, please just fucking let me in. I’m going to die of cold any second now’ _. But he grits his teeth and sets working about dismantling the security lock system. He knows how to do it so that it would look more like a regular problem rather than an intruder breaking it on his way inside._

_By the time he lets himself in, his fingers are a dangerous shade of blue, his legs are stiff with the cold and he is sure his face has frozen into a pathetic caricature of himself._

_He drips heavily all over the hallway and thinks about how he is never going to clear that one up. His best bet is racing up the stairs (he is paranoid about getting stuck in the elevator if the power goes out). He walks slowly though, because he is sure that Eames would not appreciate the fact that he fell down his apartment stairs and broke his neck, especially since Arthur has tracked down his home and shown up at his door uninvited when he is not even supposed to know its location._

_He briefly wonders if he will meet his end because of hypothermia because Eames will shut the door in his face or if he will startle Eames into putting a bullet through his head because the older man isn’t really expecting visitors._

_Or maybe Eames has left the very night Arthur has decided to drop in, he thinks with a sinking feeling as he stands shivering in front of his door, staring at the metallic one and four; the four is slightly crooked. He strains to hear some sound of life but it is hard to make out anything over the sound of the rain and thunder rumbling across the sky. He could barely hear the ringing of the bell over it as it was._

_The doormat is soaking wet by the time the lock turns and Eames stands in the doorway in a black undershirt and blue shorts, Glock in hand, tapping the barrel against his chin. Cold as he is, Arthur doesn’t fail to notice the poker chip he is rubbing between the fingers of his other hand. Arthur knows what he looks like – unkempt shaggy hair, unshaven gaunt cheeks, twenty pounds skinnier than the last time Eames saw him almost a year ago when they had performed the inception together with Cobb, and dripping wet from head to toe. There is no mistaking the sardonic smile on Eames’ face – he is not happy to see Arthur there at all but at least he isn’t turning him away or shooting him through his head –_ yet _._

_“Will you look at that – baby birdie flew out of Daddy’s nest and landed on my doorstep.”_

_Arthur shivers violently in response, teeth chattering in his head._

_Eames raises a brow and glances around the empty hallway before looking at Arthur again._

_“Please,” Arthur implores, fingers frozen around the leather kit in his hand._

_The magic word works. Eames steps back, holding the door open and cocks his head to a side, indicating that Arthur should come inside. Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice._

_The thermostat of Eames’ opulent apartment is set a notch too high and Arthur feels his calves cramp as the sudden change in temperature starts to warm him up. There is an electric fireplace radiating heat and flashing bright fire visuals at the further end of what Arthur assumes to be the drawing room. His fingers tingle as blood rushes back into them and he stands in the foyer, looking down the open door towards the drawing room and then turns to glance down the narrow hallway to his right that has closed doors on either sides._

_“Get inside, darling,” Eames drawls out, placing a hand on Arthur’s back, unmindful of his wet leather jacket. “It would be quite troublesome if you catch your death of cold at my door.”_

_Arthur leaves behind his shoes and sodden socks in the foyer and almost moans in relief as his wet feet touch the warm rug laid out over the greater part of the drawing room. The furniture is heavy and Edwardian. Light glints off a heavy chandelier in the centre of the ceiling. Arthur is dripping all over the undoubtedly expensive rug but Eames doesn’t seem to mind the fact at all. Arthur comes to stand near the electric fireplace. A futon is laid out in front of it with the covers peeled back – Eames must have been asleep there when Arthur woke him up._

_“Get out of those clothes, will you?” Eames prompts as he leaves Arthur near the fireplace and goes to search a closet on the other side of the room. He returns with a towel, a pair of faded gingham pyjamas and a thick grey coat as Arthur strips naked. “This is the best you can expect at such short notice.”_

_He takes Arthur’s wet clothes for him and disappears down the hallway from the drawing room. Arthur steps closer to the radiator as he wipes himself down, soaking in as much warmth as he can and feeling heady from it all. The towel smells like Eames and he wipes his face in it hard. Eames had his Glock tucked in the waistband of his shorts and Arthur doesn’t know what to make of his nonchalance hitherto. Of course, he won’t question Arthur until Arthur is in a physical state where he could answer him. He might yet be shot in the head but he is damn grateful for being out of danger of death by hypothermia. That one is now on top of his list of ways-I-swear-I-won’t-die._

_Either Eames is really interested in laundry or he is being tactful leaving Arthur alone while he dries himself and gets dressed. Arthur hasn’t thought about what he is going to say to him but he knows Eames will wheedle it all out of him. Eames is good at that. It is as well. Arthur is so exhausted; he doesn’t know where to begin. He has nothing to hide from Eames. If Eames is particularly annoyed by something and throws Arthur out, Arthur plans to beg him to let him stay till the storm has passed. He feels a wave of nausea but he hasn’t eaten in so long that he doesn’t even taste bile at the back of his throat, just a painful cramping of his stomach._

_He pulls on the coat Eames had handed him and rubs his cheeks. The sparse stubble that has come to shadow his face rasps against his tingling fingers. He is dry enough to take a seat at one of the plush Edwardian sofa chairs but they are a bit further away from the fireplace. So he stands at the foot of Eames’ futon, reluctant to stay further from the heat than he must._

_Eames returns soon with a bottle of brandy and a big china cup. Wordlessly, he pours some for Arthur and hands it to him. Arthur murmurs his thanks as he takes the cup from him but doesn’t immediately drink._

_Eames takes a swig straight from the bottle. When Arthur looks at him, he says, “I’m sure I will need it for whatever you are going to say to me.”_

_He sits down on the futon in front of Arthur, his back to the bright dancing image of the log fire._

_“Fischer’s put a price on my head,” Arthur blurts out, his eyes fixed on the ink decorating Eames’ skin visible around the edges of his undershirt. His head is swimming and he cannot make out the designs. But Arthur knows that Eames has a Virgin Mary on that arm. He cannot bring himself to meet Eames’ eyes._

_Eames is still for so long, Arthur has to rub his eyes to make sure that he is seeing okay and that Eames is indeed seated in front of him. The dull headache from the back of his neck has traversed all the way up to the top of his head and he feels as if it is going to split down the middle. The smell of brandy makes his stomach heave so he finally puts it down on the ornate coffee table without tasting it._

_“How much?” asks Eames eventually after guzzling down a few more mouthfuls of the brandy, “I might hand you over to him if the sum is good enough.”_

_Arthur drops down on the floor beside the coffee table, his legs aching with exhaustion, and rubs his face again. He had the bottle of ibuprofen in the inner pocket of his jacket, or had he taken them some time during the previous day? He does not remember but would it be worth it to ask Eames where he put his clothes so that he can salvage some of his pills from it? He is really glad that he isn’t still out in the rain being hunted by unknown people. He doesn’t want to come off as being nit-picky and ungrateful._

_“A million,” he answers stupidly, instead, “negotiable to twenty million if I’m alive and relatively unharmed.”_

_That finally draws a snort out of Eames and he gulps down dangerous amounts of brandy before capping the bottle again and gets up to put it aside. “Well, I can’t wait to hear the story behind_ that _,” he says sarcastically, standing over Arthur now and fixes him with a glowering look which belies the light-hearted tone of his words. “I need something for my entertainment while I wait for an entourage of mercenaries to knock on my door. And when they do, make no mistake, darling, I will hand you over to them and make sure they give me a good cut for my effort to keep you_ relatively unharmed _.”_

_Arthur shrinks inside the grey coat and draws up his knees, trying to move away from Eames. It only serves to annoy Eames though and he slams a fist into the wall behind Arthur, swearing out loud._

_“I’m sorry,” Arthur says weakly because the headache is making his eyeballs throb. His eyes are burning and he is sure they are going to fall off any moment. He feels horrible that he has made Eames so mad and he wishes that the headache would kill him already. All that effort he has put into keeping himself alive doesn’t seem worth shit anymore._

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Eames says gruffly and hauls him to his feet. Arthur sways a little but steadies himself. Despite knowing how furious Eames is, he wants to lean into the broad hand as it feels his forehead and cheek for his temperature. Eames mutters more curses as he pulls Arthur to the futon and makes him lie down on it. He fetches some pills and tells Arthur to swallow them down before allowing him to collapse under the duvet._

_“I’m really sorry, Eames,” Arthur says when Eames returns and sits down on the floor beside the futon. “I had no other place I could trust.” His eyes are burning and tearing up and he keeps them shut, head buried in the pillow. His body feels like it has been stampeded by a herd of bulls. He shivers despite being as close to the radiator as he can without burning himself._

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”  Eames repeats roughly, lost for any more words as he watches Arthur shiver under the duvet. He runs a hand down his hair and squeezes the nape of his neck and when Arthur scrambles closer to him, he perches on the edge of the futon and brings Arthur’s head to rest in his lap._

_Arthur falls asleep holding one of Eames’ hands, his face buried in the broad palm and callused fingers. He is so exhausted at this point that he does not even care if he makes a pathetic picture. He has never been to Eames’ home before and he hasn’t seen Eames for almost a year since the inception, but all of it is useless detail. He is here, with Eames, and he is safe and that is all his tortured brain needs to know._

_Arthur wakes up a few times during his delirious sleep as the fever sweats off. Eames wipes down his skin and murmurs that it is alright when Arthur tries to get out of the bed, saying that he needs to be on the move, that he needs to keep running or else they will get him. He calms down when his eyes focus on Eames and finally, when the rain breaks by the next morning, Arthur has fallen into a deep dreamless sleep, his body cocooned snugly against Eames’._

_The day is brumous and overcast but thankfully, there is no more rain. Thick mists settle over the streets and even against Eames’ third floor windows. They have got nowhere to be but it makes looking out at the streets so much harder. It is easier to keep the heavy brocade curtains drawn and let no sign of life leave the apartment. So Eames decides on doing just that and when he returns to bed, Arthur is stirring awake, more stray stubble on his cheeks but no longer looking like he has been bitten by a rabid monkey and is on the verge of insanity and early death._

_“Hey,” he says hoarsely as he looks up at Eames. His throat is parched. He pulls himself to sit up and then pulls off the coat. A thin layer of sweat coats his skin and he is no longer shivering._

_“I don’t have anything in the house but brandy,” Eames replies practically as he takes the coat from him and drapes it over a chair nearby. He hands Arthur a half-full bottle of water from the table. “I was packing up to leave when you came. But since I will have to postpone my stay here, I’m going to go out grocery shopping. You need to lie still and make absolutely no noise. What are the chances of your pursuers tracking you down in the next hour?” Eames crouches down next to the futon and looks at Arthur._

_Arthur wets his throat with a little water and his stomach rumbles but he is able to keep it down. He doesn’t even remember the last time he ate something. He doesn’t know what day it is today. He drinks a little more of the water, grateful._

_“I lost all tail in France – in Lyon. I made my way to Calais hitchhiking and using cash only. I didn’t draw any cash at Lyon from my account, though – I stole some money.” Arthur is not proud of it but he did what he needed to do and hey, he is still alive. “So they won’t know how much I had and where I was headed. The last of my money was spent when I bought a train ticket from Calais to London. I had to use my real passport there though. I have been navigating London on foot. I would definitely have noticed if I was being tailed. I didn’t get here yesterday – I got here some days before. It was dark but it hadn’t started raining yet, not like yesterday.” Arthur rubs his head, pressing his memories harder. But he had been feverish and a little delirious all of yesterday and he knows that he has been here one other night at least because he spent it hidden in an alley at the back of a Thai restaurant where the startled owner had found him in the morning and offered him some food. Was that yesterday morning or the one before?_

_Eames squeezes his shoulder and Arthur looks at him. “I’m really sorry,” he apologises. He looks haggard and beaten and his cheek and collarbones stick out in an anorexic manner. Arthur has always been thin, losing weight faster than he is able to gain it. His adventures over the course of previous fortnight have left him just a step away from full blown emaciation._

_Even if Eames didn’t have any deeper reasons for letting him stay (assuming he still has them, that is), then he would helped him solely because it would have made him feel like a bastard who kicked out sickly new-born pups if he hadn’t._

_“I bet you are,” he says and pushes the limp hair from Arthur’s forehead. “I’ll draw you a warm bath before I go. I’ll leave the Glock with you, too, just in case.”_

_When Arthur starts to protest, he gently cuffs his neck. “I have more I can use. Don’t worry your pretty little head with things like that. Use anything you want around here. If the phone rings,” Eames indicates the handset perched in the middle of the table, “stop whatever you are doing, take the Glock, make sure the fire escape is clear and get out through it.”_

_Arthur nods and grips Eames’ forearm and squeezes it._

_“Thank you.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay,” Eames’ eyes are smouldering as he looks at Arthur, or maybe it is just the fire on the screen being reflected in them. “You keep your head on and don’t let anything happen to yourself. Okay?”_

_“I won’t, Eames,” Arthur reassures him. He can feel the worry and trepidation radiating off Eames. There is a permanent crease between his eyebrows and his forehead is lined. “I’m going to be alright. I didn’t think I’d make it here but I did and I’m feeling okay. I will be okay.”_

_Eames seems reassured by that and pats the side of his neck. For a tense moment, Arthur wants to lean in towards Eames and press their lips together. But Eames puts the Glock on the pillow and gets to his feet. Arthur averts his eyes as Eames gets dressed. He gets out of the bed, takes the Glock and checks the magazine. It is fully loaded._

_“Arthur,” Eames stops just as he is heading out to the foyer and turns to face him. He steps closer to Arthur and holds out something for him. Arthur blanches as he drops his red dice on his outstretched palm. “Thought I’d check your pockets before dropping your clothes in the machine – your wallet, keys and passport are in the kitchen. But I thought you should keep this with you.”_

_Arthur knows that Eames is aware of the fact that he uses the loaded red dice as his totem. The thing is, one is not supposed to let someone else learn the trick behind their totem. But Arthur has ‘stolen’ the dice from Eames. If Eames recognises the dice as one of his own, then he has never mentioned it to Arthur. Granted, they haven’t had a lot of time to discuss such things._

_“Thanks,” Arthur replies and closes his fist around the red cube._

_Eames looks at him intensely for a few moments before closing the distance between them. He cups Arthur’s jaw and presses his lips to Arthur’s temple. “You bloody fool,” he whispers against his skin and Arthur makes a choked noise as he wraps his bony arms tightly around Eames and buries his face in his neck. He has never felt the need for human warmth so badly before._

_“It is going to be alright,” Eames says, enveloping Arthur in a fierce protective hug. “You did right by coming to me. I was a little miffed that you knew about this place but never dropped by even once before.” Arthur manages a throaty laugh. “You’re safe here, alright? I’ll never let anyone harm you.”_

_“Eames...” Arthur croaks out, tightening his arms around him as much as he can physically manage._

_“Shh, darling,” Eames runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair, pulls back his head to look at him. “Just make sure you stay safe while I go find sustenance for you to keep you alive, yeah?”_

_Arthur nods and turns his head to kiss Eames’ hand._

_Eames caresses his face and kisses his temple again before pulling away from him reluctantly. He casts one more worried look in his direction before heading out of the apartment._

 

-

 

 

The feeling of his plump moist lips was still fresh against my skin as I heard his footsteps receding into the distance. I stood near the door till they had completely faded as he headed down the stairs and then rubbed my arms through the sleeves of the pyjama shirt. Having him in my arms and being held by him had only emphasized how badly I had missed him all this time.

 

This had turned out so much better than I had expected. I was warm, Eames wasn’t mad at me for tracking down his home and showing up in it with a twenty million dollar bounty on my head. I hadn’t lied to Eames. I would never put him in danger like this unless it was my only remaining choice. Even after I had arrived in London, it would have taken me only a few hours to get to his home even if I walked. But I had been paranoid about being followed and had gone round and round, using maps at bus stops trying to shake off any tail I might have had. Then it had begun raining and a storm had been forecast. I had been at my wit’s end and completely convinced that I wasn’t being followed when I had finally decided to drop in on Eames. By the time I had broken into his building and rang the bell to his apartment, I had been operating on autopilot.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. I had known Eames would be home because he had ‘disappeared’ after his last job and not resurfaced. He had only taken one job in the last year after inception. With the hefty payment Saito had given each of us, he obviously meant to have a long sojourn. Hell, we all deserved one hell of a vacation after that near-fiasco. My adventures, I discovered, weren’t over after the flight landed in LAX, though. And after everything that had happened in Los Angeles this past year, I had only been strongly convinced that I didn’t want to walk away from Eames again. I wasn’t sure that Eames would have me after all this time but I had to try. It had become the most imperative thing in my life.

 

Just out of precaution, I hadn’t flown directly to London. I had landed in Germany and then decided to take a leisurely route to England, sight-seeing and relaxing on my way there and think over what I was going to say to Eames when I finally met him again. That was until I noticed that someone had broken into my hotel room in Munich. I left immediately and a little research through a couple of my fake online identities on the train from Munich to Prague had me reeling when I discovered that a bounty had been placed on my head. One million, dead; twenty million, alive – signed, Robert Maurice Fischer. Well, not exactly but I had been quick enough to trace back the links to Fischer Morrow and to Robert’s right hand man, Drew Sullivan who was obviously the one carrying out Robert’s orders.

 

I had barely stepped onto the station in Prague when I was ambushed outside. That’s where I lost my entire luggage but I still had my laptop and phone. I destroyed them the first thing before jumping onto the next available train – to Lyon, France. My bleeding cheek and black eye drew wary and concerned eyes but as long as I was on the train, and had the attention of the patrol, I was safe.

 

But I couldn’t travel on Eurail forever. I had no idea who was following me. Hell, there could be any number of people who would be out hunting for my head. First, I had to stop leaving an electronic trail behind me. Once I couldn’t be located using a satellite, things would get easier. Good old fashioned disguises and blending in with crowds was the only thing that was going to help me. I had a few millions to my name already and I kept them in multiple accounts, not all of which could be traced back to me. But there was a bounty on my head and I couldn’t afford to take the slightest risk so I resorted to pick pocketing. I am not very good at it but people are careless and there is nothing like desperate need to teach you a skill or two.

 

Hitchhiking was dangerous but I kept alert and made good calls under pressure. Once my trail went cold on the World Wide Web, it would be far more difficult to trace me. My last confirmed location was Prague. The railway station there was big and there were enough trains coming and leaving – international and regional – to confuse my tracks for a long time; unless someone had spotted me getting on the one to Lyon. I had paid in cash for that one. But I hadn’t been accosted in Lyon and if bounty hunters were out to get me, it made no sense that they let me wander around like I did without nabbing me. No one knew I had originally been headed to London to meet Eames. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that I was in London unless they saw me here. Of course, I had had to show my passport when I had crossed over through the English Channel, but that would be very difficult to pinpoint.

 

And if they hadn’t seen me here till now, then I was sure as hell not going to show my face till I had a plan – a plan which involved safely excluding Eames so that my misfortunes didn’t put him in any sort of danger.

 

I traced my tracks over and over in my head as I soaked in the comforting warmth of the bath Eames had drawn for me before leaving. I kept the lights of the bathroom off and the Glock at hand. I left the door slightly ajar. The small bathroom window looked out over the fire escape. It probably did not matter if I kept the lights on or not but I couldn’t afford to relax. Whatever pills Eames had given me had rid me of the fever and let me have a night’s rest. Now I had to stay on top of my game. Being near Eames infused me with determination. If I was being followed, then chances were that I had already implicated Eames. And I wasn’t going to let any harm come to Eames.

 

The pale daylight filtering in through the bathroom window was enough to reflect the sad state of my face. I had Eames’ permission to use anything I needed but I hesitated as I picked up his razor. I don’t need to shave every day (which gives me a bit of a complex sometimes because I am officially over thirty years of age now) but back home I had a Braun Series 7 electric shaver. Eames owned an abused shaving brush, an old-fashioned straight razor, an Edwin Jagger razor, a half-empty tube of Old Spice Shaving Cream and After Shave which I had smelled on him even back in Greece. I picked up the straight razor and stared at it warily before putting it back and deciding that the scraggly beard was going to be my new look till I got my hands on more automatic amenities like an electric shaver. Even if it made me look like a nutcase, at least it hid my gaunt cheeks.

 

I heard the front door open and close and quickly pulled on the gingham pyjamas again. They were big for me like the set of Eames’ clothes I had borrowed before but thankfully, the pants were drawstrings and I didn’t have to continually worry about them falling off.

 

“Hey,” I said as I joined Eames in the drawing room again. I was curious about why Eames was living solely in that room but I respected his privacy enough to not go looking behind other closed doors without invitation.

 

Eames had unloaded armful of groceries on the tables and a few packages on the chaise lounge which I supposed was clothing in my size from Tesco, which had an outlet just down the block. I felt warmth bubble inside me just at the sight of Eames back safe and unharmed. I won’t know what I’d do if something happened to him because I had blindly run to him when there was a bounty on my head. Despite of being aware of all the dangers, I didn’t regret coming here or wish that I hadn’t. This really was the only place that had been left for me, I thought, and my stomach rumbled.

 

“Yes, yes I got you food,” Eames said jokingly as he looked over at me. He tossed me a couple of brunch bars. “I’m no cook but I will fix up some frozen sausages and beef burgers. Munch on that for now.” I was grateful he didn’t ask about my last meal or how I had come by it. He would have if he thought it did me some good. But I didn’t want to linger on the gritty details when I had much substantial worries looming ahead.

 

“Thanks,” I said with feeling. He glanced at me and gave me a quick smile before taking the boxes of frozen food to the kitchen. I wolfed down the brunch bars without even noticing the flavours. Then I took a few minutes to go through the clothes and dressed myself before rummaging the grocery bags again. I found a big box of chocolate chip cookies and tore into it. I walked over to the kitchen where Eames was unloading the beef burgers and sausages on two plates. It seemed surreal. I almost reached for the dice in my pocket but I knew how I had gotten here and I could trace back all events over the past months and years.

 

I put down the box of cookies and pressed into him from behind, wrapping my arms around his waist as I rubbed my cheek along one shoulder.

 

“Everything alright out there?” I asked him as he rubbed my hand.

 

“Doesn’t seem like you brought in any stalkers, pet.”

 

I pondered on the irony of ‘stalkers’. Should I tell him that I was headed to London even without the threat of the bounty over my head? I decided it was too early. There was a lot I still had to explain to him. I didn’t know how much time we had but right now, it seemed like we had plenty. I wanted to take it slow. There was no point in making the man burst an aneurysm when he was the only person I could count on anymore.

 

“Good to know,” I told him and kissed his neck before letting go.

 

He turned around and held up the plates loaded with food. He kissed my forehead and then said, “Let’s go eat,” as he handed my plate to me.

 

I sat on the futon but Eames opted for the rug. There didn’t seem to be any sort of dinner conversation which won’t make our stomachs churn so we ate in complete silence. It was an intimate and cosy silence though. I had always known Eames to be the kind of guy who was charming with his words, the smooth talker in any company. This was a new side of him.

 

I had expected to be grilled the moment I dropped at his door. Why would the man who we had successfully incepted put out a bounty on one of the people who had performed the inception? Were the other members of the team in danger as well? Did _he_ need to hide deeper, go on the run? But nothing of the sort had come forth till now. Instead, Eames had made sure that I rested, cleaned up, ate and most importantly, that I was safe.

 

I knew I had no right to expect more kindness from him than he was willing to give freely. I had no right to demand anything from him, not after rejecting him every time he had risked offering me something.  But as my stomach was finally peacefully full and rested, it got my hopes up. To be honest, I had no idea what I expected from him. I loved him. I wanted him. But those were abstract concepts. How did that translate into how things would be in reality? Did I want to stay in his strange apartment with him for as long as he would have me? Did I want to monopolise his care and concern and hope that he had eyes for no one but me? My heartbeat went up a notch as I considered that there was a possibility that Eames would give in to having that sort of sex again and agree that it was enough for just two of us doing that sort of thing. The idea that he might not grow bored of me after we fucked every which way possible was strangely alluring.

 

“Alright there, pet?” he asked as I finished my meal and had a cookie for dessert. I probably shouldn’t be eating so much after having gone hungry for so long but it was hard to stop. The warmth and comfort had fanned my appetite.

 

“Yeah,” I replied as I picked up his empty plate from where he had put it to a side to take a couple of swigs from his bottle of brandy. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m _good_. I’ll take care of the dishes – there are just a couple of them.”

 

“There are just a couple of them,” he agreed and put the bottle back on the table. “They can wait.”

 

He took the dishes from my hand and put them next to the bottle of brandy.

 

He had turned off the log fire visuals on the electric fireplace so when his eyes lit up with that hot, smouldering look once more there was no mistaking the reason behind it. Nevertheless, he held back. His body was tense, his posture that of an animal who had caught sight of a favourite prey but he was just observing it because he thought the time wasn’t right to attack just yet.

 

“Come here,” I told him, took hold of his wrist and tugged him closer.

 

Despite the burning need I could clearly see in his eyes, he was gentle as our lips pressed together. His fingers stroked the side of my face as he kissed my lips over and over and then his arm enveloped my body, hand splayed on my back as I pressed my tongue inside his luscious mouth. The pleasant thrum of desire bubbling inside me, I gripped his short hair and held his head in place as I sucked on the delicious wet muscle pressing against my own. I drew a low growl from his throat but he held me gently, hesitant.

 

I shifted such that I could push him onto his back on top of the covers and straddled his body. He let me do whatever I desired and then ran his hands up and down the sides of my thighs. His touch was loving but careful. I felt a longing ache at his tenderness and the effort he exerted to hold himself back the best he could.

 

I took one of his hands between my own and held it tightly as I placed a kiss over every one of his knuckles. He chuckled, embarrassed, and then stroked my cheek delicately.

 

“Ran out of shaving cream?” he asked as his clipped nails scratched over my bristles. “I couldn’t remember if I had any so I bought some anyway.”

 

I thought of the sort of razors he had and how I dare not put either of it anywhere near my face. “Why,” I asked him, “don’t you like my new look?”

 

He ran a thumb over my lower lip, eyes glinting with mirth. “You look like Jesus, especially with that hair growing out long.”

 

I laughed and pushed his hand away from my face. Hovering on top of him, I took his lips in a hard kiss till my lungs burnt for air and made sure he was panting hard afterwards. “Did this make you feel like you are getting a Holy Kiss?” I quipped.

 

He laughed hard, his body shaking under me. “ _Blasphemy_ , darling, have mercy on my Catholic soul.”

 

I propped myself up on a forearm, interested in the new fact he had let slip about himself.

 

“Catholic, are you?” Of course, there was the Virgin Mary on his arm but I won’t have assumed him to be a Catholic based on that alone. For one, he flaunted it every chance he got just to get into a guy’s pants – or that was my personal experience of him. I didn’t even figure him to be the kind of guy who believed in souls.

 

“Well, parts of me,” he corrected himself but seemed unwilling to go into further detail. He brushed back the hair from my face as I started to unbutton his shirt with one hand. He pulled me in for another kiss and moaned in approval as I played with one of his nipples. If he was going to be intimidated by my sickly look and label me ‘Fragile: Handle with Care’, then I would have to take the lead in things. Hitherto, I had always been a little intimidated by him, knowing how his approval or lack thereof hit my ego. He was fierce about having the upper hand and controlling our activities between sheets. It seemed easier to let him lead and then follow through in a way he would approve. Granted that we hadn’t had enough chances to be together, but a lot of our non-sexual dealings had emulated this pattern as well.

 

I placed wet open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and neck, licking at the whiskered skin, turned on by the texture and taste. I felt his approval dig into my hips even through our pants. I bit the skin below his breastbone and sucked a red mark onto the clear skin, his fine body hair tickling my tongue.

 

“Get out of your clothes,” I told him as my own erection strained against my pants and my balls ached with pent up desire.

 

He was alluringly submissive. I had been hesitant at first but as he quickly got rid of his clothes, tossing them aside with no care, I saw that he was enjoying being lead. I pulled off my clothes soon after and then pushed him onto the futon again, resuming my straddling position on top of him. “Suck my cock,” I told him, running my fingers through his short hair and fisting it as much as I could. “Suck it hard. I want to fuck your face. Don’t touch it. I just want your mouth on my balls and cock.”

 

Usually, I wasn’t one for dirty talk. But Eames was driving me crazy. He sat up and smirked at me, his crooked teeth flashing predatorily. He gripped my ass and pulled my groin closer to his face. My knees digging into the futon on either sides of his hips, I looked down at him, craving, feral need spreading through my body. He kissed the bony jut of my hipbones before putting that beautiful face between my legs. I gasped as he mouthed at my sac, his tongue working behind and around and then dragging up the underside of my cock.

 

“Do that again,” I moaned out as he wriggled his tongue around the head of my cut cock and then sucked on it a few times. He squeezed my butt hard, his large hands spanning almost the whole of my cheeks. I felt his fingers inching towards my hole as he worked me to distraction with the things he was doing with his mouth. He ignored me as I tried to tug back his head when the sensations grew too overwhelming. I had meant to carry on a volley of dirty talk but I was too far gone to string together anything more than encouraging expletives anymore.

 

He sucked on my cock till it made my thighs quiver and then backed away, bringing me down from the brink of my climax. He tongued at my tingling balls and he massaged my hole a few times and breached the entrance with a thick dry finger. I cried out his name and before I could recover, he was blowing on my hard on again, tracing his tongue around the bulging veins and abusing the spots that made me pull at his hair.

 

“Stop,” I cried out as he started the exquisite torture for a third time. “You’ll make me come... stop.”

 

I breathed hard as I looked down at him, relaxing my hold on his hair as he tilted back his head to look up at me. He had pulled back his finger and his hands were stroking my ass soothingly.

 

“Don’t... don’t touch me. I won’t be able to hold back. I want to finish with you,” I said as I backed away a little, folded my knees and lowered myself. I cupped his beautiful face with both hands and kissed him hard and deep. He was no longer pliant and submissive under my kisses and gave me back as hard as he got, separating only when his sharp teeth had left a stinging cut on the inside of my lower lip. I had finally roused his passions enough for him to quit treating me like a breakable doll.

 

There were no more words exchanged after that. His uncut cock was curved up and straining hard. It was darker and thicker than mine when engorged with blood. I gripped his sac and fondled each side before taking hold of his cock. He groaned and gripped my upper arms tightly as he thrust up towards my hand. His nails dug hard into my skin, it was quite an effort for him to hold himself back from taking hold of my cock as well. But he would do as I demanded. The sheer sense of power I held over him would have driven me to my orgasm. But I wanted to come with him. His hips bucked back and forth as he fucked himself in my fist and only when I felt the twitch of his cock before he spurted out his cum, did I let myself release as well, pushing forward my hips towards his so that I could pump our cocks together to milk out the white release.

 

His hold on my body slowly relaxed and he enveloped me in a tight hug, no longer mindful of how skinny I had gotten. It was exhilarating. The semen on our bodies got messier as he crushed me against him but it was the last thing on my mind. The words I’d thought over and over threatened to burst out of me and I buried my face in his neck, kissing the scruffy skin over and over again.

 

“You’ll be the death of me, pet,” he said as he kissed my shoulder. His voice was wrecked with emotion. I stroked his back and pulled back just enough to kiss his temple.

 

We were sweaty after the exertion especially being so close to the heater. Eames grabbed his t-shirt to clean us up. My limbs were melting from the afterglow and I pushed him to lie down and fell onto my side next to him.

 

He cupped my cheek and brushed his thumb over my cheekbone. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, unguarded and endearing as he looked into my eyes. Eames was the sort of guy who got along with everyone chiefly because he didn’t feel the need to showcase what he really felt about them. However, he had let that guard down around me to some degree. Maybe it was because of the sexual attraction he had felt towards me the first time he had seen me. He had made no secret of that. Afterwards, he would let me see more of him when we had sex and although there was a lot about him that I did not know, I was sure that what I had learnt about him was for real – he didn’t fake it with me. However, he was careful not to let me know of the negative feelings I must have inspired in him because of some of my actions. Eames was always gentle in his behaviour towards me, channelling his annoyance in words at times, but never more than that.

 

“Did you miss me or did you miss the sex?” I asked, evading the way his words pulled at my heart. If I gave in now, I would break down completely. There was a lot I needed to tell him but I would do it in my own time. I couldn’t let him know how badly I had missed him – I won’t be able to hold back anything if we went down that lane right now.

 

“Darling,” he said, smiling at me through half-lidded eyes, “I didn’t know I could have one without the other.”

 

“That... makes no sense,” I replied and stifled a yawn.

 

Eames brushed back the hair from my cheek and wrapped his arm around my body. “It makes perfect sense, love,” he said as I struggled to keep my eyes open. “If I have you near, you know I cannot keep my hands off you. It would be monstrous of you if you made me do something like that.”

 

I laughed lazily and closed my eyes. I urged him to tuck his head beneath my chin and held his body just the way I had imagined over and over for the many, many nights I had spent missing him. Eames kissed my chest as he complied and murmured something I did not register.

 

I must have drifted off to sleep after that.

 

When I woke up, it was to the sound of rain and the sweltering warmth of the duvet and a thick body around me. My limbs were tangled with Eames and our positions had changed so that I had my head on his chest as I hugged him in my sleep. I felt his fingers stroking my hair slowly, lifting up some strands and then letting them fall back again. A broad hand rested on the curve of my butt, a thumb was rubbing circles just below the small of my back. He was awake.

 

I lay still for a while, relishing the intimate touches. But then I inhaled too deeply and his chest hair tickled my nose. His movements stilled as I lifted my head to give a short sneeze.

 

“Hey,” I croaked out as I turned my head and met his eyes.

 

His lips pulled up in a fond smile.

 

He let go of me and I sat up. I glanced around the room and noticed that it was neater than before. The dishes and brandy bottle were not on the table. My clothes were neatly folded and placed on one of the sofa chairs. I was naked but Eames was in a pair of tracksuit pants. I folded the duvet around me.

 

“How long was I asleep?” I asked.

 

Eames sat up as well, cross-legged, and looked at me. “You’ve been out for almost the whole day. You were in a bad shape when you got here, Arthur, you needed the sleep to recover.”

 

I was quiet for a while as I thought over his words. So it had been long but an entire day? That was impossible! I would surely have woken up in between but I had no memory of that. Sleep no longer meant dreams – or nightmares – so the last thing I remembered was being sweetly loose-limbed after a strong orgasm and whispering sweet nothings before I fell asleep. How had I stayed asleep for so long?

 

“You drugged my food,” I accused him with narrowed eyes.

 

“I did not,” he replied indignantly. “I just meant that you were sleeping like a log and I didn’t wake you up because you needed the sleep. You were swallowing whatever I handed to you. I won’t need to drug your food.”

 

Well, I felt like I was on drugs. I was reading innuendo in his most casual phrases. Or maybe it was just a habit that I had developed back in Greece and never outgrown it.

 

Now that I had had my rest, bath, food and sex, all the basics in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs were covered. Eames was looking at me patiently, ready to give me whatever more I would need. I couldn’t demand anything more of him. I knew I was only putting off the inevitable. I would need to talk to him. I would need to tell him about what was going on. If I told him that I couldn’t talk about it, I think he would agree. If he was someone like Cobb, all concern on the surface but hungry impatience underneath, I might have lingered on more, wanting to prolong his agony. But Eames was genuinely kind towards me. Every moment I put off talking to him, the guilt was only mounting. I got up and put on my clothes. I had my back to him. He had no real reason to avert his eyes but his gaze was fixed on the blank fireplace screen when I turned back.

 

I sat down next to him, far enough to not be touching but close enough to be unable to move without doing so.

 

“You didn’t ask me if you were – if the whole team was in danger or if I was courting bad luck all by myself,” I said by way of beginning the discussion. I’m sure if I jump started with something like ‘ _I’ve been sleeping with Robert Fischer_ ’, that might just be the one thing that spelled the end of his patience.

 

“Why would I?” said Eames simply as he looked at me. “If that was the case, then you would have mentioned it the first thing to me when you got here.”

 

My heart did a little stop-start thing. What? Did he know I was in love with him? That whatever this was, it wasn’t just carnal attraction to me but ran deeper? He wasn’t smiling but his expression was honest. He meant what he said and there were no layers to it.

 

“If Cobb was in danger,” he explained further as our eyes met, “you won’t be concentrating so hard on your personal safety, would you?”

 

Oh. So it wasn’t something just between us. I pushed away the small disappointment, chiefly because the mention of Cobb enraged me. “Fuck Cobb,” I snapped before I could stop myself. If it wasn’t for Cobb pulling the asshole act on me, maybe I won’t have gotten into the whole fiasco in the first place. Maybe. At my worst, I had even blamed Eames for everything but Eames had no obligation towards me, not after I had been a downright bastard to him before. But Cobb, well, Dominick Cobb was my best friend, mentor, and partner. I didn’t want to be the sort of asshole who would demand Cobb to be there for me just because I had risked my life for him. I wasn’t keeping scores. If Cobb wanted nothing more to do with me once he was back to his family, it was fine. But if he disappeared on me without a warning or even a goodbye, that definitely made him a selfish bastard.

 

Eames raised a brow at my words, looking amused.

 

“I don’t give a shit about Cobb,” I continued stubbornly since I had already let that cat out of the bag. “But yeah, I won’t be lounging around your house without warning you if you were in danger.” That sounded safe to me. No overt emotional revelations, just sufficiently pragmatic and reasonable. Moreover, I wanted Eames to know that he meant something more to me with or without Cobb. I mean, he knew that, right? That if the whole inception team was in danger because of me, I would be as worried about him as I would be about Cobb – probably more. He had to know.

 

“Indeed,” rejoined Eames, stretching out a leg and scratching his ear, “that would have been bad manners as a guest.”

 

“Terrible manners,” I said emphatically. “So no, you lot aren’t in any danger, you are right about that.”

 

I fell silent after that. I didn’t really know where to begin. What was the tipping point? The fact that I had turned around after getting my luggage and Eames was nowhere to be found? The fact that I had woken up the next morning, feeling ridiculously guilty over the incepting Robert Fischer’s mind? The fact that I had gone to talk to Cobb about it but I had discovered that he had disappeared with his kids and left no address behind? The fact that I had hit Volcano after ages and met Fischer-Morrow’s sole heir there? And he had seemed like the only guy who cared, much like he had started considering me as the only man who cared for him – till he had realised that I fucked him over some way.

 

“You don’t have to go into the dirty details,” Eames said after I was quiet for a long while. “Do you have a plan? Just give me enough to work something out for you.”

 

My heart felt heavy. The more concerned and kind Eames was to me, the worse the guilt got. I wonder if he knew that it was how his benevolence would affect me and was using it on purpose. I won’t put it past him. He had quite a reputation as a con artist, didn’t he? He was nice to me but he wasn’t selfless.

 

“I just don’t know where to start,” I said, staring at the rug. “I don’t have a plan. I didn’t know there was a price on my head till I was already in Germany.” It was time to drop one of the big revelations. “I was already on my way to London, just not being too obvious and direct about it. I didn’t have any clue how crazy Robert was until I was already well out of the States. No one knew I was coming here to meet you. No one knew where I was going at all. And from Lyon, I made sure that I would definitely leave no trail at all. When I got to London, I still had my doubts about coming to visit you. I didn’t want to expose you to unnecessary danger. But since there is a greater price on my head alive, I figured no one would let me wander the streets without nabbing me if they were really tracking me. Plus, the fucking rain really made me miserable.”

 

It was Eames’ turns to play the silent card as he pondered the words. I thought he would ask me why I was headed to London to meet him in the first place but when he was ready to speak, he said only one word, “ _Robert_.”

 

Of course he had caught on to that. It was as well. He needed to get used to the idea before I spelled it out to him in plain English. I rubbed my face. “Whatever I’m going to say, however I put it, it will sound completely retarded and brainless and everything idiotic and moronic.” I was overdoing it with the adjectives but I wanted to let him know that I was aware of the extent of my foolishness.

 

“Just tell me the way it was,” he said quietly. He got up from the futon and went over to the window, pushing aside the curtains a little and looking out.

 

The leaden weight in the pit of stomach grew heavier.

 

“My home is in Los Angeles. I’ve grown up there and spent the greater part of my years there as well. When I got back, I went to meet Hunter and Marla – they are my parents. I was back at my childhood home for a while and I don’t know if that had anything to do with it, but I started feeling terrible about what we had done. The Inception. It was nothing like Extraction, you know. Being a thief – that’s okay. Stealing something is unethical and changes people’s lives, too, but it never made me have any sort of moral issues. It was just a game. Sometimes the people I stole from were just too smart. Sometimes I outsmarted them. A game, see? They grew richer or poorer as a result of it but they were still – whoever they were at the core. The bad men remained bad. The good ones, they kept on being good.

 

“But the Fischer-Morrow split was all over the papers. I couldn’t help reading about it. Robert was all over the news. While before, his relationship with his father had been something entirely different, afterwards, he magically seemed to have become his father’s son, wanting to be a man in his own right. Of course, they speculated he was lying and this was his way of taking his revenge on his dead father but one that would cost Fischer-Morrow. Everyone was talking about it. He has been branded an un-filial and not-so-clever son. But Robert Fischer didn’t seem to care about what everyone else said because he was sure in his own mind of his ideas. Ideas that we had planted in his head. He thought they were his own and based his life upon it.”

 

Eames returned from the window and sat down on the rug in front of me. His expression was thoughtful and serious as he looked at me. I searched it to see if there was any hint of exasperation or derision over the fact that I had suddenly seemed to grow a morality over something that didn’t seem to bother anyone else on the team. I’d have known. If any of us had been as affected by Robert Fischer not being himself anymore, then they would have made an attempt to reach out to the others first, just like I had. Even now, Eames seemed completely unaffected by my words although he was considering them gravely.

 

“That was the plan since the beginning, Arthur,” he replied patiently, “to change the course of destiny by making Robert Fischer break up his father’s empire.”

 

I exhaled and rubbed the bridge of my nose. He didn’t get it at all. “Yes, we planned to perform inception on Robert Fischer so that Cobb could get home and be with his kids. Imagine if one day the kids hear something awful and get it in their heads that their dad killed their mom. It is an awful, wrong idea but it will be in their heads and they will hate Dom forever and never forgive him. Their memories of their parents’ loving relationship will be destroyed and who knows how they will fuck up their lives after that?”

 

I hadn’t thought about these things even once while we had been planning to perform the inception. Robert Fischer would break his company and that would be it. I hadn’t thought anything beyond that. I hadn’t thought of anything at all during that job. In fact, my mental capabilities had been so compromised at all that I hadn’t even considered that Robert’s mind would be militarised. That was a whole other story, though. The thing is, when I did come to myself, and when Robert Fischer did change the course of destiny because of an idea we’d put in his head, things began to change more severely than any of us could have foreseen. Robert was a prominent media figure especially after the death of his father. It made me think about what we had done every single moment of the day.

 

Eames took my hand in his and stroked it slowly. “But we gave Robert Fischer a positive thought, something that was his catharsis. He will not go through his life hating his father.”

 

I looked at Eames helplessly and clutched his fingers tight. Why didn’t he see things the way I saw them? Was it because he hadn’t had a chance to meet Robert? Would it change his mind, too, if he saw what had become of Robert Fischer?

 

“But his father was an asshole, Eames. He didn’t care a bit about him. He abused his mother. We dug up every dirty detail of his history, didn’t we? No matter what Robert Fischer did, his father had nothing good to say to him but he had brought up Robert under so much restriction that Robert wanted nothing more than his father’s approval. Robert shouldn’t have wanted that man’s approval in the first place. Robert should have learnt that his father wasn’t a man he needed to feel positive about. Robert needed to be who he was but he’ll never know what that is because we changed his mind to give him the approval he wanted.”

 

“I’m not saying we did a good thing, pet,” replied Eames. He brought my palm to his lips and kissed my hand. I was grateful that he did not justify our actions even if he didn’t really understand what affected me so.

 

“No, no, it was horrible.” My heart calmed down a little as I watched Eames press kisses over my hands and wrists. It was queer sometimes, how I barely knew anything about Eames but he managed to make me calm down and feel at home more than anyone else ever had. I was glad he wasn’t abandoning me these thoughts and telling me it was a sign of my immaturity and incompetence that I was feeling that way about the whole inception thing. It made it easier to tell him more. “But then I told myself that at least Cobb got something out of it. And we save world energy from monopolistic domination. But Cobb was more important, really. And if he was happy, I could live with it.”

 

I swallowed the bile that rose up in my throat at the thought of Cobb. Some wounds would never heal. “But he wasn’t there anymore. I went over to his home. His mom was there in the house but Cobb had disappeared with the children. She told me Dom thought he needed to cut away from his old life completely. He was sorry but he couldn’t leave behind an address even for me. I begged her to at least let me have a phone number – or convey to Cobb that I wanted just a word with him. It wasn’t about work, I just missed him as a friend. But she said that was quite impossible.” I pulled back my hands from his and rubbed my face. I sounded absolutely selfish now but this really was the part that hurt more than the fact that we had fucked up Robert’s life. “He hadn’t even told me he was going to do something like that, not even a hint, not even a casual call to say goodbye. He just got up and left. He knew he was my only friend and I didn’t even matter enough for a last word.”

 

I looked anywhere but at Eames. I didn’t want him to see me like this, like a snivelling weakling. Half of my life had centred around my friendship and partnership with Cobb. I won’t even be in the whole Dream share business if it wasn’t for Cobb. And he hadn’t even said goodbye. I don’t think he even thought of me once he got back to his children. I understood why he had done what he had done but I had never felt so abandoned in my life before.

 

The loneliness had hit hard like never before. I had considered hunting down Eames but that terrified me. What if Eames didn’t want anything to do with me either? What if he told me he had no place for me and really, what right did I think I have tracking him down like that? Wasn’t I a grown man? I should be able to take care of myself without burdening someone else. But the loneliness had been terrible. I could survive Dom’s abandonment but if Eames rejected me like that, with all my wounds still fresh, it would break something irreparably inside me. I couldn’t bring myself to take that risk. Eames meant too much to me. If I didn’t meet him, then I had my own thoughts of him to comfort me. He had always made me feel wanted. If I didn’t give him the chance to destroy those fantasies I had of him, then he couldn’t reject me. Maybe I would never see him again, but I could remember how he looked at me, burning desire and naked want, and I could imagine that that never changed no matter how much time passed. I couldn’t risk losing that, not yet.

 

“I guess I just didn’t know what to do,” I said. Never as long as I lived would I tell him that I had considered him as my only lifeline for a while. “I couldn’t stop feeling terrible over Robert and it just ate at me. I took up a small job and it went okay but I realised my subconscious was a mess. I needed to get a hold of myself. There’s a bar,” _gay bar_ , “I used to go to as a kid. Well, as a teen, and I just wanted to run comforting patterns. I used to love the place. The Volcano. It was very tacky and isn’t as popular now but it felt as good a place to start as any.”

 

I had only been looking for a lay every night I went there. I didn’t want to sleep by myself at nights anymore. Even if the sex was horrible and the guy was creepy, as long as I slept in a bed with a warm body next to mine, it felt bearable. I skipped these details, too. Eames didn’t need to know things like this. I didn’t know how to tell him wretched details like that.

 

“After a couple of months, that was where I saw Robert Fischer. He stood out like a sore thumb but the kind of people who frequent The Volcano, they won’t really know who Robert Fischer was. He was just a handsome guy, a stranger in these parts, a curiosity. That’s where I met him.”

 

I had been nursing some vodka, concentrating on the music and trying to drown out the chattering of my companion for the night, Finn Something. We had hooked up a few times and he had this idea in his head that we were dating. I had tried telling him that it wasn’t so but eventually, I gave up. He was okay – twenty-three, blonde, large eyes which were a beautiful shade of violet but with a slight outward squint in the left one and really lovely pianist’s fingers. He was boring in bed – even the fact that I touched his asshole would wilt down his hard-on. But he didn’t try to run away the moment we were done with fucking and that was one point in his favour. Another downside to it was that he talked a lot. In the beginning, he was obsessed with asking questions but then he took my reticence for shyness and that was okay with me; anything as long as he didn’t expect me to talk back.

 

I’d turned into a complete asshole but for a while, that was the only way I knew how to live.

 

I had had a nice buzz after a few drinks and was considering shutting him up with something more physical – he was a sucker for kisses. I had just turned around to do just that when I caught sight of a commotion not far away and Robert Fischer smack in the middle of it. The regular patrons of The Volcano were always rather curious and enthusiastic about welcoming newcomers to the club.

 

 _Déjà vu_ , I thought.

 

I want to blame it on how drunk I was but that wasn’t it. I was just set in the asshole routine and I had ditched Finn at the bar and made my way through the crowd towards Robert. He had looked like he came there straight from work – tie and suit jacket and crisp trousers. “Sorry, girls, he’s with me,” I had declared, putting an arm around his waist. He had stiffened under my touch for an instant but then relaxed. I hadn’t dressed much differently than him – I had an extra waistcoat but he was wearing a tie clip and cuff links, so that made us even. But the people here had known me since I was a smug sixteen year old with a fake ID. They had no more interest in me.

 

“That was presumptuous of me but…” I began.

 

“No, it’s alright,” Robert had cut me off. “Thank you.” Yeah, people like Robert Fischer don’t come to clubs like the Volcano. The Vulcans (yes, that’s what the regulars call themselves) might not be charmed by it any longer, but my businessman look still won me points with people who placed that kind of importance on clothes. My tie was Turnbull & Asser. He had to trust a guy who wore that to The Volcano. It was an awfully wrong call as far as his judgment was concerned but that’s what guys like Robert Fischer are taught to believe. Sorry, Patty, your man-thongs are not the right way to go about seducing Robert Fischer. Scare him? Yes. Seduce him? No.

 

Once I had pulled Robert to a table for two at the back, he ordered a gin and tonic and insisted on buying the vodka I had ordered. I didn’t know what more I had been aiming for other than saving him from bursting an aneurysm because someone humped their bare cock against his Zegna-clad ass. He had the same deer-caught-in-headlights look on him that Dom Cobb had had all those years ago. That had nothing to do with my drunken impulse of ‘rescuing’ him but I couldn’t help thinking back to it.

 

He tried to make small talk but it was too loud and really, what common ground could he have found? I could see that he was trying to stay incognito. After a while, he seemed lost in his own head and stared blankly in the direction of the dance floor where the pole dancers were performing their routines on the stage. Unlike the other patrons who were gawking at the dancers, Robert didn’t end up with a hard on though. Maybe we had reset more than his feelings for his departed daddy when we had messed with his head, I thought. Maybe he’d turned impotent and he had come here to test out if there was any hope left.

 

He guzzled down his gin and tonic at an alarming rate though and he had already ordered his fourth one by the time I had finished my diluted glass of vodka. It is disrespectful to dilute good vodka with soda but one of us needed to be sober.

 

“Are you sure you want to drink that one? The hangover is going to be a bitch,” I yelled near his ear over the thrum of the music reverberating through the club.

 

He gave me a blank look as if he was noticing me for the first time.

 

Damn, I realised, he’s taken something before he came here. He’s probably stoned.

 

I knocked the drink from his hand, picked up the tab and got him out of there. We had barely stepped out of the club but he was puking his guts out already. Better than going into a coma and choking on his own vomit, I thought. I was already struggling with the guilt of messing up his mind. I’m not sure if I won’t turn into a drug addict and alcoholic myself if I had his blood on my hands, too. Of course, I wasn’t responsible for Robert Fischer’s faulty substance ingestion but that excuse wasn’t going to cut it with me. It was a dark time. I was looking for things to beat myself over. I pitied myself and wanted to have excuses to feel miserable. I really wish I had sought out Eames back then. The very presence of Eames near me had a way of knocking sense into me.

 

But there I was, outside Volcano, rubbing Robert Fischer’s back as his fetid vomit dirtied the sidewalk.

 

I thought of getting him a cab and sending him home. If he died in his own house, it won’t be so bad. I had done my part in trying to keep him alive. But after he had gotten over the shock of puking out of the blue, he clung to me like a sorry little boy and I thought what the hell.

 

I took him home.

 

It felt surreal to have Robert Fischer curled up on my bed in his white shirt and boxers, cocooned in my blankets and head buried in my pillow. I was drunk but I wasn’t drunk enough for this. I sat on the edge of the twin bed, staring at him for a long while. It was as if my guilt over him had drawn him to me out of nowhere.

 

I got the spare blankets from the closet and slept on the couch that night. It hadn’t struck me to put him on the couch in the first place. It wasn’t a big deal though. I often fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV when I didn’t have company for the night.

 

“You met him?” Eames’ question jolted me back to the present. “Had he come looking for you? Or was it out of the blue?”

 

“He didn’t know I was there. He didn’t know who I was,” I didn’t want to explain more than was strictly necessary. I didn’t want to paint Robert as more of a villain than I absolutely must. It wasn’t like I had loved Robert or anything but I had developed a soft spot for him. After all, if I had ignored him at The Volcano that night and gone home with Finn like I had originally planned to, then I won’t be in this mess anyway. He won’t be in the mess he was in now as well. “We just – met. Like two clubbers, you know. There was nothing more to it than that.”

 

The look Eames gave me made it clear that he didn’t think it was as innocuous as I made it sound but he trusted me enough to let it pass. His easy confidence in me was making it harder to even trim the story. It was ridiculous the way Eames was turning priest to me. Maybe I was taking his Catholic parts too seriously. I told myself sternly that I had just watched him get hard sucking my cock. There was nothing saintly about Victor Fucking Eames.

 

“Well, there was something more to it,” I conceded grudgingly. “But it wasn’t like I took him home for a fuck…”

 

A muscle twitched in Eames’ throat. “You took Fischer home?” His deliberately measured tone sent a shiver down my spine. There was a dangerous glint in his eye.

 

“I’m not saying I haven’t been utterly stupid,” I said morosely. “I made mistakes. I know that contact with a mark after performing a life-altering inception was a pretty dumb risk on my part. And if I hadn’t done that, then I won’t be in trouble right now. But I can’t change what I did, can I?” I didn’t have a right to be needled by his reaction but I was sorry, wasn’t I? I had told him at the outset that that I had been foolish. This was going to get really difficult if he was going to have that reaction to every bit of my foolhardiness – because there was _a lot_ of that.

 

Eames rubbed his chin and then sat still. “Go on.”

 

I sighed in relief when it seemed like he wasn’t going to subject me to the truant schoolboy treatment.

 

“He was drunk and stoned and once he had gotten it out of his system, I let him sleep it off. When he woke up the next morning, he didn’t even remember meeting me the night before.” I looked at the coffee table, wishing hard that the bottle of brandy had been there still. “He seemed emotionally dead. He didn’t even care that he had woken up at a stranger’s house like that. I asked him if he wanted me to send for someone to pick him up. He said he didn’t care. It was a Sunday so I didn’t think he would have to go to work but I still had to get him out of the house, get him somewhere. He sat without speaking and I finally grew tired of his apathy and went about my work. I had stuff to do. And it wasn’t like I had to worry about Robert stealing my TV or computer.

 

“When I got back from my grocery shopping, he was gone. He had left behind his wallet and cufflinks. Of course, I didn’t have to go and return them to him especially since I had already taken a big risk exposing myself like that the previous night. But his behaviour had seemed really odd and I couldn’t let it rest.”

 

I could feel Eames’ gaze digging into me. I sighed, rubbed my stubbly cheeks and looked at him.

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

“I’m going to go pee,” I said sullenly and got up. He didn’t stop me.

 

This was harder than I thought it would be, admitting my mistakes one by one like this. Yes, what had happened had happened and there was no taking it back but with every misstep I took, I wasn’t just risking myself, I was putting the entire inception team in danger as well. I was cross with Cobb so that wasn’t going to stop me. The danger didn’t feel so real at that time. Eames, Cobb, Saito and Ariadne had been at close quarters with him but I hadn’t shown my face to Robert directly beyond the first level. The first level was easily forgotten in a dream which went as deep as three.

 

Even if I had been a dreamer penetrating his subconscious, it didn’t seem probable that I would stir any memory in his conscious mind. The data on how a person reacted consciously to a person who had infiltrated their subconscious mind in dreams was extremely varied. People had been known to train themselves to recognise and remember any intrusion via Dream share. People like Dom Cobb. People like me. Probably even people like Eames. It was hard and required practice but since Dream share was my business, I had had enough practice.

 

Cobb and I had militarised subconscious but other than, we had a stronger level of defence – we had bridged our conscious to the subconscious in ways that hadn’t been achieved before. Which is why our control of other people’s subconscious was so good. We didn’t grow confused during longer extraction periods – something that was a liability with most of the other Extractors.

 

Was I analysing things that hard back then as I drove down my Ford to the Fischer-Morrow’s offices?

 

I don’t know.

 

The ruling emotions at that time had been hammering guilt and a sense of alienation from the world. The people my actions could harm? They had stopped feeling real. I didn’t care if I hurt someone. I no longer carried my red dice with me. I had locked it in a closet drawer with a flowery white shirt and a pair of neon and navy tracksuit pants. I used to pour vodka in the can of water I put on the can holder in my car. I’m ashamed of it, but that was how it was. Could I have done something differently back then? I cannot decide on that, either. It was as if all my brakes had been broken and I was rushing down the steep hillside ready to crash into the rocks. There was nothing else there to stop me.

 

All of the Sunday when I had struggled to get some sort of reaction out of Robert Fischer, I couldn’t help feeling that we were responsible for it somehow. I hadn’t been exaggerating to Eames. He was the picture of apathy. He didn’t react to anything I said. He ate the food I placed in front of him and helped himself to some lemonade but he didn’t seem to realise that there was a human being next to him. The only time he had been responsive was when he had been stoned when he got to the club last night and then afterwards when he had plied himself with alcohol on top of it.

 

With the drugs flushed out of his system, he was a zombie.

 

I had to know what was going on.

 

They didn’t let me in to see him right off the bat. But I was determined and an hour later, I had managed to slip past his secretary into his office room where I knew he would be by himself now having just finished a meeting. He was working, so he wasn’t as much a zombie as on the day before. I had seen him on his way to the meeting and then when he had come back again. His face was an expressionless mask but he talked to people just fine.

 

He didn’t seem particularly surprised to see me. Not even a ‘who let you in’ or ‘who are you’.

 

In fact, he didn’t have a reaction at all. He just sat and stared at me for a while before turning back to the file in his hand. Did he even register me as a real person?

 

“Hey,” I said, walking up to his desk and leaning over it. It was a huge desk. It didn’t quite have the effect I was aiming for. “You forgot something at my place yesterday.”

 

There was still no response from him. Even though it was afternoon, all the blinds were drawn over the windows and there was just a single lamp lit near his desk. I could see his thin lips moving slightly. He was either reading or muttering something to himself. His eyes had a vacant look and even though he continued perusing his papers, Pierre Cardin in hand, I knew his mind was far away. He was no longer in the office doing whatever work he was doing. My presence had had some effect on him but he was trying hard to ignore my presence there.

 

“Mr Robert Fischer,” I repeated, putting down his wallet and cufflinks on the table. “Are you listening to me?”

 

Apparently not, considering how he went on with his work as if I didn’t even exist. He didn’t even look like he had pressed some secret button under his desk calling for security. He had just gone on pretending that I didn’t exist. For a terrifying moment, I felt like I was in a dream and that I didn’t exist. I reached inside my pocket for my red dice but of course, it wasn’t there. I had stopped keeping it with me.

 

“If you feel like you want to stop being a twat to me,” I said snidely, placing my card on the table next to his things, “give me a call.”

 

Bad move, but his behaviour really got to t me. Why was he ignoring me like that? Did he remember that we had met at The Volcano and was feeling guilty about that whole little trip? If he pretended that I didn’t exist, then it would go away. No, that wasn’t quite it. That was a different kind of ignoring. Whatever was controlling his actions now, it had deeper roots. If he disliked my presence merely because of guilt, then he would have had his guards throw me out as a lunatic. But he wasn’t keen on getting me out of his office. He just wanted to get me out of his current reality.

 

We had screwed something up inside him. And I couldn’t find out what it was by standing there and yelling at him. I needed to think and then I needed to formulate a plan.

 

That was another of my blunders. I should have left it alone. I should have closed my eyes to everything and walked away but instead, I resolved to get to the bottom of whatever the matter was with him. I couldn’t let it go. Even though I knew what a bloody big risk it was, I made up my mind to find out what was going on with Robert Maurice Fischer.

 

I went home, threw out my alcohol, checked the dice about seventy times and put it in my pocket where it belonged. I had fallen back on my Dream share research over the past couple of months. I got back into action and tried to search for anything I could to explain Fischer’s reaction to me. Out of sheer vindictiveness, I made a file on Cobb. Of course, I never added anything to it. I discovered Eames was working a job in South Korea with Terry Constantinople (one of the most ruthless extractors besides Cobb). A Frenchwoman, Ariadne, was their architect and a Kenyan man called Yusuf was the chemist. They had a local man, Jung Chanshik, to help them with the language barrier and the planning.

 

The surge of jealousy I had felt was startlingly violent and completely irrational.

 

By then, I had stopped surprising myself with how much of an asshole I could be.

 

I went to the bathroom and took a piss even though I didn’t really need to. I just needed to get away from Eames for a bit. I felt like he could read the sordid pettiness in my face even though I skipped over the nastier details of my story. I hated myself for being how I was a few months ago. I should have known better.

 

I had stepped out of the LAX, feeling accomplished, confident and sure of myself. So it didn’t make much sense that I had gone down this spiral of negativity. Moreover, I had been the only one who had done so. Everyone else seemed just fine changing the course of Robert Fischer’s life. It was just another job to them. It had been just another job to me when I had invaded the mind of an old man with Alzheimer’s, when I had injected Somnacin in the veins of a cancer patient risking reaction with his chemotherapy medication, when I had chloroformed a blind woman and then didn’t stay to made sure she recovered properly because I had to get out of there fast to save my own life.

 

I had stoutly refused to let any of that plague my conscience only to break down over resetting a man’s relationship with his father on a more positive path. The fact that it had come with some sort of side-effects didn’t do anything to placate me – instead, my obsession with the state of Robert’s mind was only aggravated.

 

By now, it had grown dark enough that I had needed to turn on the bathroom lights before going in. I stood staring at my bleak reflection in the mirror. The gaunt and blotched cheeks, prominent bones, dark bags under my eyes weren’t just the product of a few days on run. Even before I had left Los Angeles, I had started disliking what I saw in the mirror. It wasn’t just the alcohol – I didn’t drink that much. I had stopped hitting the gym and I no longer gave much thought to what I ate. If I was hungry, there was always the 24/7 McDonald’s around the corner. My days had started blurring together and I had thrown myself into finding as much Dream share research as I could. Cobb had never shared his military contacts with me openly but I had hacked into his system a few times out of curiosity. I was putting all I had to use.

 

The latest in Dream share with respect to the cannabinoid receptors in the brain said that it had been observed that activation of the newer receptors (non-CB1/CB2) facilitated the access of the subconscious by the conscious. The effects were enhanced with sub threshold Somnacin doses.

 

In plain English, that meant that if a guy was baked, and had some Somnacin (not enough to go under but just enough to be on the verge of going under), then his conscious mind would be able to penetrate into his subconscious. There was nothing about how doing that in dream states over and over with totems and intricate architecture would make that conscious-subconscious link without the help of weed. I guess Cobb and I would have had something to contribute to this research after all.

 

So what kind of implications did this hold for a person who had had inception performed on them? The key to inception’s success had been that Robert suggest himself the idea. But what happened if he remembered that he had been kidnapped and made to think that the kidnapping had been orchestrated by Browning? Under normal circumstances, Robert shouldn’t be remembering things like that. What happened in dreamscape was symbolic. Robert had been incepted with the idea but he won’t remember the kidnapping, the hotel or the third level of snowstorm.

 

What if when Robert got stoned, he could access the form of the dreams which had suggested the idea to him?

 

I had researched about Robert’s drug habits while I was doing the research for inception. Nothing had come up on it. He was a social drinker but loathed all forms of smoking. Maybe he ate weed cookies. It hadn’t shown up in my work. Had I made another blunder which was going to cause a late catastrophe post-job? I won’t just have to worry about Robert Fischer in that case. Saito was going to have all of our necks.

 

The imminent solution to the problem seemed to be another night of binge drinking at the Volcano.

 

Finn had left some heartfelt handwritten hate mail for me in the days after I had dumped him for Robert Fischer back at the club. I had left him a couple of voicemails of apology but that only seemed to aggravate his misery over our ‘break up’ so I stopped. Ignoring him had worked in my favour. He was at the Volcano that night but was vehemently ignoring me and flirting ferociously with any guy who would stand still long enough for it. That was the first time I actually felt like I understood him and was properly ashamed of myself.

 

It wasn’t just Finn who had me on his radar (by omission) tonight. Robert Fischer was back at The Volcano.

 

 

-

_“Pretty boy been looking all over for you,” the newest bartender, Lyle, informs Arthur conspiratorially. For a club as old as Stone Age, The Volcano sees a crazy number of bartender changes. Arthur only remembers this one’s name because he has hooked up with him a few times in the back alley. He is burly and tattooed and if Arthur is drunk enough, he can hold onto his muscled waist and pretend that he is sucking off a certain Forger whose cock was as thick and uncut as well._

_‘Pretty boy’ being Robert Fischer, of course, but Arthur doesn’t approach him after Lyle conveys the information to him. It wasn’t any late sensibility about the dangers of his situation that made him pretend that he didn’t know Robert was there. No, Arthur is experienced enough to know that if a guy is looking for you, then it is smarter to keep playing elusive and let him find you._

_“Hello, Arthur,” Robert says as he finally makes his way towards Arthur after Arthur has two shots of vodka while he waited for him. “It’s nice to see you again.”_ No shit _, Arthur thinks – Robert has a goofy smile on his face and his hand is dangerously low on Arthur’s back – I_ figured.

_“Robert,” replies Arthur, giving the other man a half-haughty, half-careless look from under his lashes. “I won’t have figured. You didn’t seem all that eager to see me when I dropped by your office on Monday.”_

_A look of confusion mars Robert’s clean features. If his pupils were any more dilated, Arthur would have been able to put his fists through them. “I’m sorry, Monday’s are... terrible at work,” he stutters._

_“I came in when you didn’t have a meeting. I just wanted to return your wallet and cufflinks.” Arthur doesn’t want to push Robert away. However, Robert is trying hard to worm back his way into Arthur’s good books. He steps closer, his hand clutching onto Arthur’s hip as if he is afraid of letting him go. Arthur can afford to play hard-to-get for a while longer. Robert Fischer is going nowhere._

_Tonight, Robert is dressed more for fun. He looks pretty hot in his jet black shirt and skinny ripped jeans. If Arthur wasn’t so obsessed with how he has fucked up everything that had been central to his life, then maybe he would have put his hands on Robert’s butt without any games and made out with him right there. But as things stand, Arthur has more ulterior motives where Robert Fischer is concerned than the entire board of Proclus Global directors._

_“Thank for getting them back to me,” replies Robert, sounding sincere enough but clearly evading any explanation of his behaviour. Does he even know that Arthur had come to his office or is he just trying to take the easy path into his pants? Arthur cannot tell but he decides to relent a little._

_Robert is a pleasant companion once Arthur allows him the chance. He is definitely stoned still so Arthur is careful to not let him have any alcohol. Robert is eager to please him so complies to anything he asks of him._

_Arthur takes Robert Fischer home for a second time even though the young heir is almost in possession of all his senses and not making himself ill by mixing substances. He makes no secret of his intentions, either. Robert is clearly perusing him but doesn’t look like he knows how to ask what he wants. Arthur could have dragged him to the back alley and finished things off quickly but Robert Fischer had obviously had a guarded upbringing. Anything so sordid might have actually turned his interest away from Arthur for real. Arthur needed to keep him interested – at least that’s what he told himself as he got into Fischer’s black Porsche and gave the driver the address to his home._

_Robert looks around Arthur’s place apprehensively, looking more sober than he has all night. He takes the glass of iced water Arthur gets him and sips it slowly as he stands near the wall with a few family pictures Marla had hung up for Arthur. She had got them to him as a part of housewarming gift when he had moved into this place._

_Arthur runs his hands up Robert’s back and hooks his fingers in the collars of his jacket from behind._

_“Make yourself comfortable,” he says in his ear as he tugs the jacket off his shoulders. Now that it is just the two of them, Robert is meek and obedient and lets Arthur remove his jacket. “There is no need to be nervous.”_

_Robert turns around hastily and splashes some of the water down the front of his shirt. “I – I’m not nervous,” he mumbles, batting anxiously at the spilled water._

_Arthur chuckles and stays his hand. “Seriously, Robert,” he says, takes the glass of water from his hand and puts it to a side. “Relax.”_

_Robert lets Arthur undress him. He cannot take his eyes off Arthur as the latter removes his clothes as well. They are still in the living room but the curtains are drawn. Robert seems ill at ease though and since Arthur wants to continue having an upper hand, he presses him down onto the couch and pushes back the coffee table so that he can get between Robert’s knees. Robert’s body is responsive despite his consternation over his situation. Arthur weighs his sac with one hand and strokes his shaft slowly as he looks up at him._

_“Shouldn’t we – go to the bedroom?” asks Robert, putting one hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he bucks his hips forward towards his hand. Arthur’s living room is large and spacious and every sound his skin makes against Robert’s seems much louder than it should. The lights are bright here as well and the open doors leading away from the living room make a person feel that someone is about to walk in on them._

_“There is no one around but us,” Arthur says as he bends his head and kisses Robert’s thigh. “It is the same here as it would be in the bedroom.”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” Robert stutters, his grip on Arthur’s shoulder harder as the other moves his mouth from his thigh to his stomach. Arthur’s fingers are deft as they work on his cock. He is already hard and Arthur traces the rim of his head with his tongue after he places a few kisses down the happy trail down his abdomen. “It’s just – I always – in the bedroom,” Robert is gasping as Arthur takes him into his mouth and begins to blow and suck on his head in turns as he strokes his member. He gives in when Arthur’s mouth grows more aggressive, his fingers fondling his heavy sac as he takes more and more of Robert’s cock inside his mouth._

_Robert is soon reduced to guttural groans and breathless moans and when he finally gives in enough to put a leg over Arthur’s shoulder and grasp his hair to push his cock into his mouth, Arthur catches hold of Robert’s wrist and pulls his head away from his cock._

_“Not so bad for living room, huh?” he asks as he wipes the saliva from his mouth._

_Robert swallows and his clear ice blue eyes are more hazel than blue in the shadows. Arthur feels his stomach twist in absurd guilt as he looks at them. He has stared into a variety of blue eyes but looking at Robert Fischer right then only reminds him of the one particular pair he loves the most. At that time, if he had the slightest suspicion that one day he might have to mention this episode to Eames, he might have decided very differently on his course of actions. It is strange because he has no commitment towards Eames but Eames’ control over his actions is still quite powerful._

_But as things are, Arthur is convinced that he will have nothing more to do with Eames and Robert Fischer isn’t Robert Fischer – not as he has known him all of the past year. He isn’t the Mark, isn’t Fischer-Morrow’s heir, isn’t the man Saito is paying them to incept. No, Robert Fischer is just Robert – a man he met at The Volcano who is sweet and keen on him and now he has his cock in his hand and Robert wants nothing more from Arthur than to give him his release._

_If Arthur could wish for a superpower, he would want to gain the ability to stop thinking about Eames at perfectly inappropriate times._

_“Please,” Robert begs Arthur, shifts forward on the couch so that his groin is closer to Arthur’s face, “I’m so close – don’t stop.”_

_Arthur wraps his fingers around Robert’s throbbing cock as he gets to his feet. He mentally puts a hand on Eames’ face and pushes him aside as he presses his lips to Robert’s and kisses him long and deep. Robert kisses him back sloppily – kisses him like he doesn’t quite know what he is doing with his mouth but is eager to follow Arthur’s lead. Arthur grasps his face hard and strokes his cock swiftly as he kisses him. Robert moans into his mouth and grabs Arthur’s butt as he thrusts up into the circle of his fist over and over till he finally reaches his climax. Arthur milks out every last drop from his long cock before he finally removes his hand from his member and looks at him._

_Robert is flushed and panting a little as he looks back, limp hair falling into his eyes._

_“Do you... should I?” he asks, flushing deeper as he glances down towards Arthur’s half-hard member. Arthur doesn’t know how protected Robert is but if he had to hazard a guess, he would say that Robert Fischer probably had lesser experience with men than his sixteen year old self. He finds it endearing and tries not to pity him. Arthur isn’t as heavily aroused as Robert was and he thinks if Robert’s inexperience is because of how strictly his father controlled his life. There had been rumours in Robert’s early life about his sexuality but for all public purposes, he prefers women._

_“I’d like that very much,” says Arthur as he gets on the couch next to Robert. He takes hold of Robert’s hand and looks at him as he brings it to his cock. Robert’s fingers comb through the fine smattering of his pubic hair before finally lifting Arthur’s member in a tentative grip. “Hold me a little tighter,” guides Arthur, pushing his hips closer to Robert’s hand. “Just stroke me, tight – fast. Do it like you would do it to yourself.”_

_Robert follows his directions and Arthur leans closer to kiss and suck along his neck as he works on his cock. Robert’s fingers are unskilled and hesitant so Arthur shuts his eyes and stops ignoring the thoughts of Eames that have been threatening to surface in his mind all evening. Robert makes a noise as Arthur bites his neck hard and starts stroking him faster._

_It isn’t anything new to Arthur – he has done this before: closed his eyes and recalled vivid memories of Eames’ indecent mouth and thick fingers on his cock, his eyes on Arthur’s face as he watches his reactions keenly and despite Arthur’s best efforts to maintain a straight face, he just_ knows _what is going to drive him crazy. He looks pretty smug about it, too, Arthur wants to punch his face or better, fuck it mercilessly, when he looks at him that way. Arthur thinks of Eames’ hands on his body on those warm Grecian nights as he tries to unearth every little secret and then abuse it to his own advantage. He thinks of his heavy breath mixing with his own as Eames just won’t kiss him because Arthur brought him to the brink of his orgasm and left him wanting more over and over when he tied his wrists up earlier. Every time Arthur tries to put his mouth on Eames’, he will turn his head away and Arthur will clench his ass tight around his cock till Eames can’t move without damaging them both. Eames will call him a little punk, a nasty brat and Arthur will lay with his lips parted, his mouth hungering for Eames’ and Eames will finally give in and kiss him like he is going to eat him up. Arthur will hug his body as if there’s no tomorrow and let Eames move inside him again._

_“You’ll be the death of me, pet,” Eames will say as he takes hold of Arthur’s cock while he pounds into his passage. His hands work in hard, powerful strokes that have learnt how to bring Arthur to completion so that he cannot think or breathe or exist. “Say my name,” Eames will growl into his ear when Arthur will choke out a sob of ‘Eames’._

_“Victor,” Arthur will breathe out, taking Eames’ face in his hands and looking into his glassy blue eyes. “Victor, Victor, Victor.”_

_Eames will kiss him without any more games – they are both too far gone for games – and Arthur’s inhuman cries will melt into his mouth as he comes, holding, breathing, tasting and feeling nothing except Victor Eames._

_“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Arthur groans out as he finally shoots out his release. He grabs Robert’s body hard and sinks his face in his shoulder. The scent and feel of him is starkly different than the man he summoned in his mind but for a moment, Arthur would swear that he could smell the musky whiff of Eames’ sweat and skin and sex mixed with the Old Spice. It is just a moment and it passes very quickly, leaving him bereft with the realisation that it wasn’t real – it only exists in Arthur’s mind, reinforced by the times Arthur has recreated him in his dreams._

_Robert takes his hand off Arthur too fast, but Arthur resists the temptation to touch himself. He finally lifts his head from Robert’s shoulder and looks at him when he has come down from his high. Robert’s pleased gaze is fixed on him and there is a small smile on his face._

_Arthur returns the smile and cups his face as he kisses him softly. “Come to bed?” he asks, runs his fingers down Robert’s slim torso._

_Robert is only too glad to retire to the bedroom. He is more comfortable when they clean up and slip under the covers. He shifts closer to Arthur’s side and puts an arm around his body. Arthur pushes back the hair from his forehead as he looks at him and bids him a goodnight. Robert falls asleep first, and Arthur strokes his back gently as he sleeps, letting his thoughts stray far towards Eames again. Some nights he likes being masochistic and wondering if Eames is holding someone else as he sleeps as well. Maybe he fucked them good before he fell asleep. But what really triggers the jealousy inside Arthur is thinking how Eames gets really clingy after sex and won’t even let his partner move to clean – Arthur had told him he was a pig and Eames had only clung to him harder and looked at Arthur like no one ever made him as happy as Arthur did. One time he had gotten Arthur really filthy and Arthur had to make up how he needed to go pee so that Eames would let him go._

_Arthur holds Robert tighter and buries his face in his hair. It is softer and silkier than Eames’ rougher, shorter hair and smells much better than cheap hotel shampoo. Arthur closes his eyes and slowly drifts off to sleep, conjuring the feel of Eames’ burly arms around him and his bulky body half thrown on top of his own. He remembers how, for some time, they would lie staring at each other quietly, and when Arthur couldn’t bear how overwhelmed it made him feel, he would say something softly. It was the only time when Eames wouldn’t reply in smart repartee but instead, his words would be few and subdued._

_Arthur doesn’t dream anymore._

_If, on waking up, his thoughts are made of sweet nothings Eames whispered to him, then that must be the last thing he thought of when he fell asleep._

_Robert is still asleep when Arthur wakes up.  Arthur tucks the covers carefully around him before heading to the bathroom and getting on with his day. He prepares breakfast while he waits for Robert to wake up. When Robert joins him in the kitchen, he is wearing his clothes from last night and hasn’t had a shower. His expressions are more guarded than they were last night but he doesn’t act like he is a zombie and doesn’t pretend that Arthur is not real._

_“Would you like some eggs?” asks Arthur. “I’m only good at scrambling them so that’s how they are. There is toast and coffee, too. I can get you cereals if you’d prefer that.” Arthur realises he has no idea what rich kids have for breakfast. Surely, it can’t be all that different from most people. What would Arthur have for breakfast everyday if he was filthy rich? Probably really expensive scrambled eggs – he’s unoriginal like that._

_“Just some coffee is fine,” replies Robert and perches on one of the counter stools around the kitchen table as Arthur puts the food on the table._

_Arthur sits down across from him and starts eating. Robert glances around the kitchen and they don’t talk. The silence is heavy with awkwardness. Robert waits till Arthur is done eating and then says that he must get going. He has only had a few sips of his coffee. Arthur supposes coffee is really different when filthy expensive as well._

_Arthur walks Robert to the door. The black Porsche is still parked outside his place. Of course, Robert’s driver won’t abandon him but it still makes Arthur very uncomfortable that someone had been sitting outside his house all night like that._

_“Is it alright if I come by here some time?” asks Robert as he stops at the threshold. His hair is messy even though he has obviously tried to comb it and his clothes are wrinkled. But with the sun shining behind him, he still manages to look like he walked out of the pages of Vogue._

_Arthur had been about to ask him the same thing but out of completely different intentions. The look of surprise that crosses Arthur face is genuine. “I’d love to have you here,” he replies._

_Robert nods, glances around and then looks at Arthur again before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I will come over on Saturday evening. I will call you if I can’t make it but I will try my best to come.”_

_Arthur has a moment of severe depersonalisation where he feels this is happening to another Arthur in another universe. This is unreal. This couldn’t be happening to him, not with Robert Fischer. Robert Fischer didn’t seem to care for him if he wasn’t stoned enough for it. This new development throws him off-balance._

_When Robert Fischer shows up at his home on Saturday evening, he is stoned again._

_They talk a little in between making out and then retire to bed without it progressing to anything more sexual. Arthur spends his weeks delving into Dream share research and on weekends, Robert shows up at his place like clockwork. Arthur tells him he is a writer but still hasn’t been able to get a published to sell his first book. When Robert offers to help, Arthur resists saying he wants to make it on his own. Robert doesn’t press him about the details about his job after that. By and by, he is not as stoned and one time, he is completely sober. They don’t move beyond hurried hand jobs and sometimes, when Robert is feeling frisky, Arthur sucks him off. He seems hesitant about trying anything else and Arthur isn’t doing because of the sex, anyway. Arthur has no idea why he is doing this but he cannot stop. Before he knows, he starts looking forward to Robert’s visits and is surprised by how much it assuages his loneliness. He starts liking being around Robert, and is surprised that he has started looking forward to the next time when he will meet him._

_Robert usually leaves on Sunday mornings. The few times when he does stay over for the Sunday as well, he insists on staying inside the house. He grew reticent the one time Arthur suggested going out together and withdrew into himself. Arthur can sense the guilt he associates with being with a man but for some reason, he still cannot help coming over to Arthur’s place every weekend._

_But most of the time they spend together is good, and when Robert is completely sober when he is with Arthur, Arthur starts believing that they have something going on – something good. Robert doesn’t talk about his feelings. Sometimes, he talks about his work. Sometimes, he mentions his mother. Arthur slows down with his Dream share research because he has started feeling that the old life doesn’t matter much any longer. Cobb isn’t there. And Arthur starts looking at Robert and being with Robert, and the more he is with Robert and every time Robert does something that makes him smile, Arthur forgets a little more about Eames. The sort of plaguing obsession he has with Eames isn’t healthy, after all. Robert is okay. Arthur thinks he is doing okay._

_And then one time, Robert is more forthcoming sexually than usual and they take it up a notch with Robert wanting to finger Arthur’s hole. He doesn’t seem to enjoy getting it in return, so Arthur jerks him off and finishes him with his mouth. He is okay letting Arthur use his thighs but mentions he wouldn’t enjoy having his hole taken; in fact, what he actually says is, “Just don’t put it in me like you would in a fag – I’m not a pussy.”_

_Arthur is on the brink of his climax, so he pulls away and finishes himself off with his own hand before asking Robert what the fuck that was about._

_Robert grows confused and quiet and withdraws into himself._

_“Hey,” says Arthur, following him to his bedroom where Robert has gone in to avoid his questions. “You can’t just say something like that and except me to pretend you didn’t say that.”_

_“I said nothing,” Robert barks at him as he gets into the bed. For a man who is angry at Arthur, he sure has no problems slipping into his bed. “You’re hearing things.”_

_“Seriously?” Arthur stands at the edge of the bed and glares at him. “You think I would hallucinate something like that in the middle of fucking? If you’re not going to tell me what that was about, we’re done, Robert. You have issues fucking guys? Well, too bad, because you look like you enjoy being a_ fag _as much as any other fucking fag out there.”_

_“Don’t you dare call me that!” Robert snarls at him, getting out of the bed and pushing him. “I’m not one of_ you _– I’m not a fucking loser who would come from having a dick shoved up my ass.”_

_Arthur looks at him dangerously as he steadies himself against the dresser. He cannot take Robert’s words seriously knowing that the man has been abused by his father over his sexuality as a teen. Robert sounds scared, reiterating words that have been drilled into his head. He looks terrified after Arthur almost crashes into the dresser. His face keeps twitching and he cannot meet Arthur’s eyes._

_“You aren’t, are you?” says Arthur slowly. “Who says that, Robert? You just shot your load down my throat and touched my cock. Do you think those things don’t make you gay?”_

_“I’m not a fucking...” Robert breathes heavily, his hands balling into fists._

_“Who told you that?” Arthur persists, advancing threateningly towards Robert._

_Robert looks at him; he is scared that Arthur is going to hurt him. Arthur isn’t angry even though his face is an expressionless mask. Robert must know that he is speaking in the way his father has spoken to him for a long time. But his father is also the man who finally approved of him and wanted him to become a man in his own right. That is what Robert is doing now. He is being the man his father wanted him to be so that he can finally please him._

_Except that he is sleeping with another guy even though he isn’t a_ fucking faggot _._

_Arthur walks closer to him and touches his shoulder. Robert flinches but doesn’t pull away._

_“If you want to leave, I won’t stop you,” he tells Robert, “but you shouldn’t come back if you walk away. You can’t have things both ways, you understand that, right?”_

_Robert is staring at the ground. He cannot bear to look at Arthur. Arthur leans closer and kisses his cheek before moving away from him and getting into the bed. By now, he is sure that Robert doesn’t remember him from any of the dream levels in inception. If he did, there was no way he would be still standing here. But that doesn’t mean that inception didn’t fuck up his head badly._

_Arthur sighs in relief as Robert gets into the bed behind him._

_“Look, Arthur,” he says, puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “I didn’t mean to insult you. I am just not... like that. That is all I meant to say, okay? But I don’t mind if you are. I think it is okay if you’re like that.”_

_Arthur wonders if he will be risking his own sanity trying to deal with whatever fucked up thing is going on inside Robert Fischer’s head. He turns and gives him a hard look._

_“Maybe I mind it if you’re not like me,” he says coldly. “Maybe I don’t want you around me because of the way you look down upon me.”_

_Robert looks devastated. In his own twisted, warped mind, he has been shot down even after he humbled himself. Arthur rubs his eyes. “Can we just go to sleep for today?” he asks, too tired to deal with whatever is going on. “You can sleep here, for tonight at least.”_

_Robert lies down meekly next to him._

_In the morning, Arthur is the first one to wake up again. He doesn’t bother with the breakfast this time, though, and sits waiting for Robert to follow suit._

_“Good morning,” he says evenly when those light blue eyes open and find his own._

_Robert makes no response and stays still on his side for a while. He then slips out of the bed and starts putting on his clothes, the same as the first time he had been here, not responding to Arthur or acknowledging his presence in any way._

_There is a part of Arthur which knows that he should leave it alone. This isn’t Arthur’s burden to bear. Robert needs to see a professional psychiatrist, someone who has been trained to deal with this sort of thing. But Arthur did this – he helped do this to a perfectly normal man. Maybe Robert Fischer would have gone through his life hating his father but he won’t be having such spells of being numb and dead to the men he did sleep with. And this is just one thing they know that they have fucked up for Robert Fischer. There is no accounting for how many more of such things there are._

_“Hey!” Arthur gets up and walks over to Robert. “Look at me!” He grabs hold of Robert’s arm and turns him so that they are face to face. “Are you going to pull this shit on me again? Pretend that I’m not here and then seek me out when you have enough MJ in your system or whatever else it is that you load yourself up with? If you’re not going to stop with this shit right now, Robert, I swear I will punch you in the face if you come around here the next time.”_

_Robert’s eyes widen as he speaks. He had not expected a head on confrontation like this. However, he stands still, unresponsive and mute._

_“Are you listening to me?” Arthur yells at him, assailed by guilt and fear and anger. “God fucking damn it. Say something, will you? I’m talking to you!”_

_But Robert is frozen in place. Arthur has never been so frustrated, never been so much at his wit’s end. What has he done? Is it even possible to fix something like this? Does Robert even know that he needs fixing?_

_He lets go of Robert and walks away before he does something irrational in his anger._

_The front door opens and closes and Arthur sits with his head in his hands in the kitchen, not knowing what to make of the world anymore._

_When Robert Fischer shows up at his door the next time, it is over a month afterwards and he is a little drunk but doesn’t have the spaced out look he has after having had some weed. He doesn’t smile at Arthur but stays a few steps away from the door, hands in the pocket of his trench coat._

_“I swore I won’t,” he says brokenly. Arthur notices that the black Porsche is nowhere in sight. “But I couldn’t help myself. I was wrong, Arthur. You’re not like them – like the... others.” He is holding himself back from using more colourful language. “That is why I can’t stay away. You understand.”_

He must have thought about what he was going to say _, thinks Arthur. It sounds rehearsed but there is no reason why it shouldn’t be what he really wants to say._

_Arthur steps out of the house and closes the door behind him. It isn’t just some power dynamics he is setting up with young Fischer. He gets much too affected by it as well. He cannot keep doing this over and over again. It isn’t about the inception or being discovered as Dream share criminals. All that seems like it belongs to another life. Arthur hasn’t taken up a job in almost four months now. No, this is strictly about Robert Fischer and him and how whatever has fucked up Robert Fischer is affecting him._

_“You’re wrong about that, though,” he says tiredly. He hasn’t been sleeping well and has been drinking a bit too hard at times. “I am one of them even if I don’t dress flamboyantly or walk in the pride parade. I’m every bit one of them. And I can’t pretend that I’m not just to protect your feelings, Robert.”_

_“But you aren’t...”_

_“Stop telling me what I am and am not, please,” Arthur leans back against the door. “I’m not asking you to decide that. I’m telling you who I am. And I like being who I am even if you call it derogatory names. Every one of the people back at The Volcano make me feel at home and I’d choose one of them over you without a thought because that’s who I am.”_

_Robert is torn between disgust and grief. “You cannot mean that, Arthur!”_

_“Why would I say things I don’t mean, Robert? Do you say things you don’t mean? Did you not mean it when you implied that I’d be a loser if I came from having a cock up my ass?”_

_Robert has no reply but to that but he looks the most desperate and frustrated Arthur has known him yet. He still doesn’t turn away and falls to his knees in front of Arthur, utterly defeated._

_Arthur is startled and kneels down next to him. “I don’t know what to say to convince you that I really like you,” Robert says when Arthur urges him to get up and come inside the house. He stays on his knees, immobile and weighed down by the burden of his own thoughts. “I feel like I don’t know the world anymore after my father passed away. My godfather is not the man I thought he was. Nothing in the world felt real anymore, Arthur, but with you, things began to feel alright, like they could be the same again.”_

_He doesn’t explain what he means by ‘the same’ but eventually gets to his feet and goes inside Arthur’s house with him. Arthur hasn’t given much thought to what he feels about Robert because he doesn’t feel much for Robert Fischer beyond guilt when he thinks of it. The thoughts are made up of Cobb and inception, Eames and how he cannot stop thinking about Eames once he starts. So Arthur never thinks about Robert Fischer more than he strictly needs to._

_But on that day, Arthur realises that he cannot enjoy this luxury anymore._

_Robert’s words unsettle him and not just the part where he mentions that he ‘likes’ Arthur because he made him feel something different. Arthur had been feeling pretty much the same as Robert for a while now – feeling that his life away from Dream share was something unreal. Arthur who orchestrated Dream share crimes was another man in another universe and as days passed, the man who lived in his home and met Robert Fischer on weekends had less and less to do with him. He had been taking something from Robert without realising it. Robert’s words, no matter how heavily influenced they were by his faulty upbringing, had hurt Arthur more than he had let on. Arthur didn’t think he was getting into something deep when he had let himself carry on with Robert Fischer but he now realises that he had._

_He realises it isn’t just about sleeping with Robert – it is about wanting him around, and feeling happy when he is. Robert, even with the mess he was, was the only reason Arthur felt something good these days and when he had bared his darker side, it had snatched the last bit of happiness from Arthur’s life._

_So Arthur lets him in again and Robert is utterly grateful. Arthur isn’t as expressive about his sentiments as Robert but he knows he is much the same where the other man is concerned. He needs him to get through these times. It isn’t love. Arthur knows love. He doesn’t even like Fischer a whole lot but he found Arthur when Arthur was lost and that just means something more to him than he thought._

_Arthur decides he is going to let things take him wherever they will. He has tried going his own way and that lead him to dreary disappointment. If this is what he has now, then he will take it._

_Things grow better between them for a while again. The sexual side of their relationship is limited to fleeting kisses and occasional hugs. Robert still sleeps in the same bed as him. While Arthur has always thought of himself as someone who craves sexual release, being with Robert just introduces him to a different side of himself wherein he is fine with taking care of himself on his own time but actually looks forward to the comfort of Robert’s presence when the week draws to an end._

_Robert brings him gifts now. But that just makes Arthur uncomfortable. A thousand dollar Cavalli tie might be routine for Robert Fischer but it just makes Arthur feel like a big piece of shit. Robert is quick to sense his discomfiture and switches to subdued flowers and food. Arthur cannot stop him because Robert needs to feel like he is making more effort. So he lets him have that._

_They spend the Thanksgiving together and Arthur feels funny at the thought that they will probably spend the Christmas together as well. Robert has not spoken of his family again. He wears a chain around his neck which has a locket with the picture of his mother but he doesn’t speak on the subject even when Arthur holds the locket in his hand once and opens it. Arthur wonders if he has forgotten the way his mother was before they tempered with his mind. Arthur keeps on wishing that he knew more and more about what was in Robert’s mind but he isn’t sure that even Robert himself knows the answer to that._

_A few days before Christmas, Arthur realises that he has stowed away his red dice to some forgotten corner of his house. It is not just a figure of speech – he has really forgotten where he has put his dice. Whenever he had wanted to hide it hitherto, he would put it in the closet drawer when he still keeps the clothes he had borrowed from Eames back in Greece. However, it is not there and it isn’t anywhere else he can think of. He doesn’t even remember how long ago it was that he last saw it._

_Arthur panics._

_He turns the house inside out trying to find his dice but to no avail. He goes to ask the dry cleaners even though he hasn’t sent any suits to the dry cleaners in months. Arthur had been in the habit of keeping the red dice on his person after the day he came back from meeting Robert in his office. He won’t check it much and a lot of time, he would just play around with it without any intention of confirming whether he was in a dream or not. It was a token he stole from Eames and it had as much significance reminding him of Eames as it had of being a totem._

_Arthur spends the days leading up to Christmas panicking that he is in a dream. His memories are mostly clear but there are times when he has spent the days doing nothing or doing things that aren’t important enough to remember. He can tell what he has been doing with Robert over most recent weekends and he can tell how it all began. He can recall the inception job and what came before the inception job. So, technically, he shouldn’t be in a dream but Arthur doesn’t have his totem and there are gaps in his memory that he cannot explain. He has one other theory about his totem but he needs to wait until Christmas to confirm it. If that fails, then Arthur will be sure that he is in a dream. He will have to do something to wake up from it then._

_It is the worst Christmas Eve of Arthur’s life, including the one many years ago when Broderick had broken his leg and was morose and brought down everyone’s mood._

_But he knows he has to get things ready for Robert’s visit the next day and cleans up the house and prepares some food. They have planned on watching a movie together as well so Arthur arranges that._

_Robert Fischer shows up at his door at nine in the morning with a Christmas cake and a bouquet of white roses._

_“You get lovelier every time I see you,” he tells Arthur after he chastely kisses his cheek and takes off his heavy coat._

Maybe it is because I’m not really real and you have me trapped in a dream despite my overtly militarised subconscious _, thinks Arthur. Aloud, he says something to the effect of what a charming flatterer Robert is because Arthur has started hating what he saw in the mirror. He doesn’t know when it began but he has been growing thinner and his skin has an unhealthy sallow to it. He doesn’t enjoy going to the gym so he stopped a few months ago. He still visits his parents sometimes but Hunter is ailing and Marla is too absorbed in her husband to notice any changes in Arthur’s appearances. Arthur never thought of himself as a recluse but he has turned into one without realising it. Feeling unattractive hasn’t helped either. Robert Fischer still seems to think of him as the best looking creature in the universe. Arthur understands his blindness but he knows the fallacy for what it is._

_Arthur has cooked a real meal even though he hardly has any appetite ever since he discovered that his totem is missing. But he has to confirm his last theory before he decides that everything is a dream so he did what he needed to do._

_Robert catches on his mood because Robert is closely attenuated to Arthur’s mood despite his best efforts._

_“You seem distracted today,” he tells Arthur when they are watching the movie after lunch._

Now or never, _thinks Arthur. This is his cue._

_He has told Robert that he is a writer working from home. He never discusses anything about it with Robert though and Robert has respected his reluctance to go into the details of his work and not bothered him about it. So Arthur decides to use that now._

_“I’ve hit a block with my writing,” he says and Robert is instantly looking at him with more interest. This is the first time Arthur has brought up the subject of his ‘job’ on his own. Robert feels like he is getting somewhere with Arthur._

_“You never tell me about your work,” he says as he pauses the movie and turns all his attention to Arthur. “But you know that you can talk to me about it, right? Maybe your creative flow will open up again if you talk to someone about it.” Robert is eager to help him._

_Arthur hasn’t felt the buzz of adrenaline coursing through his veins in a long time. He balls his hands into fists to keep them from giving away his nervousness. He is a pro at this sort of thing, he reminds himself. He is good at this – one of the best._

_He turns his head and stares into Robert Fischer’s clear blue eyes. That theory he has about being a sucker for blue eyes? Well, it turns out that it is a load of bullshit. Because as he looks into Robert Fischer’s eyes, Arthur feels nothing but fear and finds himself wishing that his sheer will would summon Eames out of nowhere. Eames’ are the only blue eyes he wants to look at anymore. He has no idea if Eames fancies that thought as much as Arthur, but at that moment, Arthur madly wishes that it is Eames’ eyes he is looking into._

_And that the red dice is back in his pocket._

_Robert looks crazy. Arthur doesn’t know why he missed it before. This whole situation is crazy. He knows that it is not a dream now – it is just plain old madness. Oh, Robert Fischer is as beautiful as ever – clear shiny skin, high cheekbones, sleek jaw and royal nose. Even his pupils haven’t been dilated in a long while now. But there is no doubt that there is something wrong inside his head, a wild madness behind that pair of crystal clear blue eyes._

_“I lost my lucky totem,” Arthur says and watches as Robert Fischer’s expression changes from eagerness to something darker and uglier. “It is just a small dice – red. I always roll it around when I hit a block but I lost it. It has been driving me crazy and I feel like I cannot write anymore. I always keep it around – I don’t know where it could have gone but I really wish I had it back.”_

Thank God this isn’t a dream, _Arthur thinks as Robert Fischer’s expression hardens and leaden curtains fall over his eyes. He isn’t sure how the fact that it is reality makes it better but at least this means his militarised subconscious is intact and that there is no way someone can keep him in a dream for so long without him realising it._

_Robert Fischer turns away his head and sits back. He doesn’t play the movie but he sits staring stonily at the screen._

Bingo, _thinks Arthur. He hasn’t misplaced his totem. Robert Fischer has stolen it from him._

_The silence that follows Arthur’s words is heavy and impregnated with  the implication that Arthur thinks Robert might know something about his secret totem – because he has fucking stolen it from him. No doubt, Robert won’t take an accusation like that easily. But he is not here as the head of a billion dollar company. He is here because he wants Arthur to like him and now Arthur knows he has stolen something important to him._

_“Who is Victor?” asks Robert Fischer eventually, his face cold and hard when he looks at Arthur again. “Is he the one who gave you your precious red dice?”_

_And that is the moment when Arthur’s glass castle crashes down to the ground and he is back to being the Arthur he has always been – Dream share criminal, the best Point Man in business, Dom Cobb’s protégé and partner, and the man who is irrevocably in love with Victor Eames._

_It was alright as long as this madness was just affecting him. Arthur will never admit it but he is a gentle soul. He would have lived this life with Robert Fischer for howsoever long Robert would have wanted it and gotten something from it. But there was no way Eames was going to come under the shadow of this mess. Arthur would never allow it._

_Arthur narrows his eyes at Robert and his voice rings loud and cool as he tells him, “Give me back my dice, Robert.”_

_Robert scoffs at him and gets up, making to leave._

_But Arthur shoots up right after him. He takes Robert Fischer by his collar and slams the startled man back into a wall. “I’m not playing games, Fischer,” Arthur snarls at him. “Give me back my dice.” Blood is pounding through Arthur’s head and his ears are ringing. He would have killed Robert Fischer there and then with his bare hands if there was even a bit of suspicion in his mind that it would protect and help keep Eames safe somehow._

_Robert Fischer is white as a sheet. He rummages his pockets till he finds the dice and then thrusts it towards Arthur’s face. “There’s your dice, you bloody psycho,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant but his voice cracks with fear. He has never seen this side of Arthur. Arthur is the kind, loving guy who has been his comfort for a long time now. He didn’t even know that Arthur was capable of violence and such terrifying anger._

_Arthur lets go of him once he has the dice in his hand. If Robert stole it from him in a dream, then he won’t be able to make it loaded the right way. He turns away from the other man and leans over a table, throwing the dice on it a few times – six, six, six, and six. He leans against the table as relief floods him and closes it in his fist. He kisses his closed fist and keeps holding the dice in his hand. He cannot even bear to put it in his pocket anymore._

_When he turns, Robert is holding himself against the wall, knees still trembling._

_He lets Robert Fischer take his coat and leave without another word._

_Things can only go downhill from here but Arthur will be prepared. He cannot afford to be an asshole wallowing in his own misery anymore. Somehow, he has brought Eames into it. And he will definitely make sure that Eames will not be hurt because of him._

 

 

-

 

 

I squeezed some of Eames’ Old Spice shaving cream on my fingers and began lathering up my face with it. It was kind of foamy and wasn’t lathering like I had thought it would. I looked at the shaving brush with its bristles sticking out in every direction. Oh yeah, that thing figured into this somehow, didn’t it? Could I use it now? Or should I have put some cream on the brush and rubbed it all over my face? This was complicated. I wanted my good old Braun shaver.

 

I noticed a trimmer that had definitely not been there before. Had Eames gone out and got that for me? He must really hate my whiskered look. I picked it up and turned it over and over. It looked used though. Maybe it had been in a cabinet somewhere. I put it back and picked up the Jagger. It was the safest bet. I wasn’t going to slit my throat using the straight razor and I wasn’t going to cheat with the trimmer.

 

Usually, I wasn’t the kind of guy who would consider sharing something like a safety razor. It was kind of disgusting, like sharing a toothbrush. I glanced at Eames’ curvy bright green toothbrush. A little shudder ran through me as I realised I won’t mind sharing Eames’ toothbrush _at all_. Was this an extension of my mental plight over the past few months?

 

 I tightened my cheek and set about scraping off the growth.

 

Soon I had worked off all the hair from one half of my face and there wasn’t a single cut on my skin. I was filled with a newfound admiration for the glinting chrome implement in my hand. And it was a pretty close shave, too. I would get it all on a second run.

 

After I was done shaving, I examined my face closely in the mirror. For the first time that I had used a safety razor, this wasn’t a bad job. In fact, I felt rather rugged and powerful. Not even a stray nick. I was a natural.

 

I washed and wiped my face. I rubbed on the aftershave and sprayed on the cologne on the glass shelf. Now I smelt exactly like Eames. Well, almost exactly like Eames. I’m sure there was this extra body to his smell that was just him. I hadn’t sniffed him a whole lot but he had a way of filling my senses when I was around him.

 

I didn’t want to risk making a bad chop job of my hair so I let them be. There was a pair of scissors but it seemed more like a beard scissors, small and thin. It was okay, though. I looked sufficiently like myself again. I had lost the crazy insomniac look I had sported when I got here. All that sleep had done me a lot of good. I’m sure the sex helped me sleep well. I wondered if Eames would be up for more sex after I was done telling the rest of my story to him. I wondered if I should just skip telling it to him because I didn’t want Eames to refuse me sex because he thought he might catch the dumb and crazy from my body fluids.

 

“I didn’t know going to pee was the new euphemism for shaving,” Eames observed dryly when I finally returned to the drawing room. He had turned on the fire visuals and it was throwing the room in a crazy pattern of lights and shadows. Someone had grown lax about ‘hiding out’ in the apartment, I thought. He had finally brought back the brandy bottle, too, this time with two big china cups. That was a good thing because if he hadn’t needed the alcohol yet, he would definitely need it now.

 

“You are falling behind times,” I told him as I sat down on the couch next to him. “Keep up, old man, or young guns will start laughing at you to your face instead of behind your back like they do now.”

 

“Do they?” He put down his cup and wiped his mouth with his hand. “Young guns like you?”

 

I rested back against the couch and rolled my head to the side to look at him. “Oh, I’m an old hand in the game, Mr Eames. I just make you seem like a paedophile with my youthful appearance. You don’t have to worry about actually being one when you get to fuck me.”

 

He snorted and batted away my hand on his thigh. “You don’t look that young anymore, Arthur. People will believe that you are over eighteen without demanding to check your ID.”

 

“Is that why you are resisting my sexual advances now?” I was not to be refused. I wanted him really bad. I climbed onto his lap and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Because I don’t make you feel like a dirty old paedophile anymore?”

 

He must have meant to push me away when he brought up his hands to my chest. But his hands hesitated as he laughed, a little breathless, and since he couldn’t push me away, he tried to press back as much against the couch as he could – which wasn’t that much at all.

 

“Arthur – Arthur, stop,” he held my sides and squeezed them as I pressed in closer, angling my head to the side, readying myself to place kisses on his jaw and neck. The trimmer hadn’t been for me. The trimmer was what Eames’ had used. His face was newly shorn, tiny hairs rough and scratchy against my lips. I dug that. “We were _talking_. I cannot think about your interesting story with – distractions.”

 

I exhaled against his ear and then kissed his cheek before moving off him. He impeded my movement, holding my waist tighter to keep me in his lap. I raised a brow as I met his gaze. “Make up your mind, Mr Eames.”

 

He slid an arm around my waist to keep me in place on his lap. It was an uncomfortable fit because I was still as tall as him even if I had lost some weight but it was alright. There wasn’t another place I wanted to be. I rested my arms around his shoulders as he said, “Just tell me the whole thing, alright? You don’t have to move away for that as long as you behave.” His rugged voice was still much too cautious even though he wanted to sound light hearted. I could sense that he was afraid of what came next and it made me realise that I’m not the only one vulnerable when we are together like this. I picked up where I had left off before.

 

“I visited him in the office the next day. He completely ignored me as if he didn’t even realise I was there. It was the oddest thing. I couldn’t figure out why that had happened. But he came looking for me again at the Volcano and again, he was on weed.” I sat back on his haunches, an uncomfortable flush rising up my neck as I looked at my fingers instead of Eames’ face. “That night we fucked.” There was no other way but to be blunt about it. “We kept hooking up after that. I thought it was something to do with any memory his subconscious might have retained of me. But that wasn’t so. It was just casual.”

 

“So you _dated_ him?” asked Eames, enunciating each word slow and clear.

 

I looked at Eames again. He made no secret of the fact that he disapproved the ‘dating’. It wasn’t because Robert Fischer was a Mark I had incepted and what is a guy supposed to make of that? If I was getting my hopes up again, then it was Eames who was encouraging it. If he was saying something unreasonable like he didn’t like the fact that I was dating someone while I was a free man, then I was going to let him get away with it because I knew what he felt and I couldn’t help it, either. I only wished I could express these things as easily as Eames did.

 

“I won’t call it dating,” I replied. And I wasn’t lying. “At first, I wanted to stay close to him to figure out what was going on in his head. But then I realised that it was a near impossible task so I gave up. But we sort of just got used to each other.” Eames gave a weird little smile when I said that. “I’d look at him and I’d see a man whose head had been completely fucked up. The way he was living his life now, well, he acted as if his father had finally approved of him. But then his father was also the man who had disapproved of his _faggotry_ and Robert had no idea how to deal with that. His mother had borne a lot of abuse as well and she hated his father towards the end. He wears a picture of her on a locket around his neck. He cannot take it off but he acts like it physically hurts him to have it there. He agonises over Browning, too, but doesn’t talk about any of it. I don’t think anything inside his head makes sense to him. When he came to meet me, it was an escape from everything. He stopped stoning himself when he would meet up but that also meant that we kept it platonic, really. Things were strained sometimes but after that they were fine for a while – until he stole my totem.”

 

Eames shifted a little and held me tighter. His brows were creased with worry and I touched my fingers to his forehead. I still found it sexy, I realised, and clamped on the irrational urge to laugh at that. I couldn’t believe I was here, with Eames, in Eames’ arms after everything that had happened. For the moment, he was safe and I was safe and the rest of the world seemed like an intense movie experience – something we had felt but it was all staged and not of any concern to us.

 

I never feel as real as I do when I’m with Eames.

 

“I made him return it to me,” I said as Eames took hold of my hand that was on his forehead. “He demanded to know who _Victor_ was, asked me if he was the one who gave me the red dice. I don’t think he figured out the dice was for. I – well, I sort of lost my cool over it because I couldn’t figure out where these questions were coming from. Of course, I had never let him know that you existed and I was scared he had figured out something somehow. He ran away for the night after that.”

 

I was nearing the end now. Even if it was getting difficult, I was going to plough on till the finish line. I had already showcased enough of my mistakes. The rest of it wasn’t absolute blunder on my part anymore. I had started the crescendo towards redemption.

 

“The next thing I know, I am waking up in my room but it looks nothing like the room I went to sleep in. Everything in my room is completely smashed, broken.” I recalled the glaring visual of the white flowery shirt lying next to me on the bed in shreds. “It is the dead of the night. The only working thing in the room is the red night light but it is enough to show that Robert is in the room. He is standing at the foot of the bed and looking down at me.

 

“I asked him if he had done this. He told me he was sorry but he said I made him so mad, I had driven him crazy with jealousy. I was buying time talking to him but I knew I was in a dream. I didn’t need to check my totem. I’m – I’m practiced enough to know that without totems now.” Eames gave a thoughtful nod at that. Eames doesn’t use totems like Dom and Ariadne. He had found the idea interesting when Dom had told him about it but he said he wasn’t one of those who lost track of reality. It was like a sixth sense or something – he could tell when he was in a dream and when he wasn’t even without doing something to manipulate the dream space like forging himself to look different. I’d not said anything when I heard him discuss that with Cobb but I realised I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Finally, I’d told Eames that I felt that way, too.

 

“I could feel my militarised projections coming through. They were going to attack was any minute,” I continued. “He had no idea though. He asked me who Victor was – apparently, I had said his name in my sleep a few times – and why the red dice meant so much to me that I touched it the first thing in morning at times.”

 

“And he couldn’t possibly be making all this up,” Eames commented quietly when I said that, his eyes holding mine as closely as his arms held my body.

 

“It is interesting that while I lost my ability to dream, I retained my habit of sleep talking,” I replied gravely.

 

Eames laughed – the first light hearted sound I had drawn out of him since I had met him again. I couldn’t help smiling and then leaned closer to take his lips in a loving kiss. How had I survived so long without this?

 

“You should talk in your sleep for me,” he said against my lips. “I am hurt that you’ve never done that for me before, darling.”

 

“Don’t be an asshole,” I chided him. “You know you always fall asleep before me. Yesterday was a fluke because I had a fever.”

 

He chuckled and kissed my forehead this time. “How long had it been since your last dream share experience? It must have been over six months. If Fischer hadn’t interrupted your sabbatical from Dream sharing, then you would have gotten back your ability to dream as well.”

 

“I don’t have a use for it,” I replied and squeezed Eames’ fingers in my hand.

 

Loss of the ability to dream on repeated exposure to dream sharing isn’t a permanent condition. If a person isn’t exposed to dream share for long lengths of time, then they begin to recover their ability to dream in sleep again. However, the dreams in natural sleep are not as vivid as the ones experienced under the effect of Somnacin and other dream share compounds. They cannot be controlled at will either, so most people usually resort to using Somnacin in order to dream in sleep.

 

Recovery from the effects of dream sharing begins with the appearance of some parasomnias first – phenomenon like sleepwalking, sleep talking, sleep terrors or even sleep sex, claim some researchers.

 

“Go on, love. What more secrets had you been divulging to young Fischer by way of sleep talking?”’

 

“Not much else other than your name,” I admitted. “When he questioned me in the dream, I told him Victor was a lover I had lost – he had been in the military. The dice was a sentimental memento I had of him. We had parted on bad terms so I was filled with regret over him. I told him there was no point in being jealous of someone who was gone for good though.

 

“He seemed to believe me. It was taking all of my control just holding off my militarised projections because I had gotten him talking for real first time. He said he understood loss because he had lost his father. He had told me that before but had had never opened up to me like this before. He had always wanted his father’s approval but his father had died seeing him not become the man he wanted. He had never understood what his father really wanted from him until he had died. Only then he had realised that his father didn’t want him to follow in his footsteps but he wanted him to be his own man. He had always believed that his father didn’t even care about him. But his father had had plans and expectations for him all along. He had just not seen them in time.

 

“I think I got a little excited about how the inception was working so good. But that was early celebration because then he mentioned something else.

 

“Ever since he had met me, he often had bizarre dreams of people torturing him for information and when he refused to tell them, they would kill his father. It was a rather elaborate dream which he only remembered in parts. The men were reporting back to Peter Browning, his godfather. This was significant to him because one of the men who was involved in the torture and kidnapping was me. His father had always disapproved of him because he was gay. So he assumed his dreams meant that he wanted to break through his father’s disapproval through me.

 

“He had a whole bloody team of Dream share counsellors, people from military even. He consulted them and was advised to run a background check on me nevertheless. And then Cobb showed up on his research. I was the world’s most skilled extractor’s right hand man. What did it mean that I showed up in his dreams torturing him and killing his dad? And who was the other man with me?”

 

I took a deep breath and looked at Eames. He made no reply to that so I carried on.

 

“My panic resulted in gunmen bursting into the house and gunning us down. Thankfully, he hadn’t used any seedy compound which would send us into Limbo. All we did was wake up. There were a couple of bodyguards there and nothing more. I pulled the needle out of my arm and told him that we needed to talk without the threat of guns in my face. My dead lover story had softened him up. He agreed.

 

“I told him that yes, I had worked with Cobb but that was a thing of past. I hadn’t had anything to do with him in years. His sources said that I had been spotted with him within the last year. I told him his sources sucked. My mind was a mess after ‘Victor’s’ death, so I couldn’t work in Dream share anymore. Then I told him to leave me alone because he had wrecked my head enough for one night. We had had enough of each other, because he complied without any further arguments. Once he was out of the door, I packed a bag, got on a car and drove out from Los Angeles. I didn’t particularly care where I was going in the beginning.”

 

I remembered nights spent in motels, red dice in my hand, wearing Eames’ clothes, aching, aching so hard to go and find him. The whole ordeal of Robert pulling the PASIV on me had given me a scare and since the moment I had looked into his eyes and thought about how the only one I had wanted to be kissing all along was Eames, well, it just made me want to get away from that place. I did this for a couple of months and had even gone over to Mexico for a portion of time. I kept my money in a few different accounts and was careful to use the ones I know won’t be tracked down to me. I wasn’t purposely trying to run away from Robert Fischer – I just didn’t want to be around all of that for a while.

 

Then last month, I had borrowed one of the motel owner’s laptop when I was in Florida – I could be charming and sweet talk when I wanted – and used it to track down Eames for the last time. He had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth again, which meant that he was home. I didn’t need any more information than that. I knew where his home was. Even before the threat of Robert’s bounty, I had put all knowledge of London I could find to construct the city in my solo PASIV trips and had replicated fifteen different ways to his place from the nearest tube station. I had never been to London but I was constructing something I already knew through research. It wasn’t part of a dream though. It was like a reality-simulator game. I would end up at his door over and over and over but never had I been able to gather the courage to ring the bell until yesterday when I had done so in reality.

 

Eames touched my back to bring me out of my musings and I went on with my story. There wasn’t much left to tell now anyway.

 

“I was so sick of it all, and I just wanted to get away. I didn’t think there was a threat from Robert anymore and I assumed he won’t want anything to do with me.” I held Eames hand as I begged for his forgiveness. “I am sorry, Eames, I knew where to find you because I had been keeping a track of your location for some time. It was a fucking creepy and wrong thing to do but I swear I have destroyed every bit of information I ever had on your whereabouts. It was the first thing I did when I learnt that Fischer had put a price on my head – I was in Munich. And I’ve never let slip your whole name to him so he shouldn’t have a reason to suspect that you’re the Victor I meant. I need to find a way to get back to him without someone shooting me in the skull for it. I don’t know why he has placed a bounty on my head. And since it is a bigger bounty alive, I’m hoping he will still be within bounds of reason since he wants me back alive.”

 

My throat was parched. I licked my dry lips and Eames’ took a cup from the table offered the brandy to me. I drained it in a few gulps

 

Now that the essentials were all off my chest, I did feel a bit better. Eames was eerily silent and wasn’t looking at me anymore. He had removed his hands from my body and his eyes were focussed on some point behind me but then again, that had been a lot for him to process in the duration of a few hours. It would be okay if he kicked me out of his place right now. At least, he had some sort of warning in case Robert had actually figured out that he was Victor Eames and was now onto him.

 

My stomach rumbled. It was well into the night, judging by how dark and quiet it was. Then Eames urged me to move and I shifted off his lap and onto the couch again. He didn’t look at me as he got up and really, if he thought I should leave now, that was okay. I wanted him to protect himself and I won’t hold on to him selfishly if it meant compromising his safety. But he won’t mind letting me have one last meal before he asked me to leave, would he? After all, he had been genuinely concerned about how I had thinned out since he last saw me and all.

 

“I’ll bring you some food,” he said. I didn’t dare look up at him. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking just from the tone of his voice but if he was offering me food, then all was still good. I murmured my thanks. I don’t think he heard it. I only glanced in the direction of the door once he was out of it and then poured myself more brandy, emptying out the bottle and drank it down quickly.

 

I gazed longingly at the futon. I was hungry but what if I casually fell asleep while waiting for him to warm up more frozen food? Would he wake me up and throw me out without letting me taste the food? My collarbones were sticking out something ugly. He’d take pity on me, won’t he? Eames was a kind man, a pacifist. He would let me linger here for at least one more night’s rest and a couple of meals, won’t he? The tube must be closed by now as well.

 

I sat musing too long. Eames soon returned with portions of pie and more sausages.

 

“Thanks,” I said quietly as I took my plate from him. He must have eaten before. I dug in hungrily as I tasted the chicken and mushroom pie. Pies were going to be my new favourite food. It was really soft and creamy and I wanted to ask for seconds but I resisted. I had been shameless enough for a day.

 

Eames brought out another bottle of brandy and poured out some for both of us.

 

He sat down on the futon but I could feel him looking at me occasionally.

 

“Slow down, Arthur, you’ll choke on the food. There’s a week’s worth of meals in the kitchen.”

 

I coloured and replied that no thanks, I had had enough. I ate slower after that.

 

I was touched that he waited till I had stuffed myself (I couldn’t resist taking him up on the offer of the second helping of pie, though) before he touched the serious subjects again. The brandy was better than the other bottle we had been drinking from till now. It would take the edge off whatever he was going to say. A full stomach and a cup of alcohol in hand, I was ready to face him again.

 

I looked at his profile as he was gazing towards a corner of the room, lost in thought. Had my adventures been so bizarre that he was struck speechless? But he had laughed once and held me close while I told them about it. Maybe it was all just sinking in. Maybe if he thought that if we stopped talking about it, then I would stop telling him more ridiculous things. Maybe he was okay with me dating Robert but the fact that I had been stalking him had been a blow to him. But he need not have worried about that. I was done for the day. I had told him everything – well, everything that he needed to know without the ugly details.

 

“So exactly when do you plan to return to your Robert?” he asked me just as I was beginning to suspect that he was going to pretend that I had never told him my story because it was too much for him. He got up from the futon and came towards me.

 

“Don’t call him that,” I said as I watched him pick up the bottle of brandy and take a swig from it.

 

He swallowed and then looked at me with a brow raised in question.

 

“He’s not _my_ Robert,” I said bitingly and drank more brandy. “He’s not my anything. Don’t make it sound like...” I waved my hand a little, trying to convey what I meant because I was lost for words. “You know. That there’s something between us. Because there isn’t. I already told you we weren’t dating. I told you everything ended and I came here looking for you.”

 

“But you won’t have come looking for me unless your Robert had pushed you to it, would you?” asked Eames. He put down the bottle in his hand. “What made you think of coming to London instead of, I don’t know, going to vacation in the Caribbean? Is this some sort of rebound that got complicated by a bounty on your head?”

 

It was so ridiculous, I couldn’t believe it. I stood up, prickled. I picked up my empty plate. “I’m going to do the dishes,” I informed him. “There’s no reasoning with you. Rebound? Don’t tell me that you just fucking called yourself a rebound, Eames. I came here for you. I’m sorry I’m so pathetic that I felt the need to have someone on my side when I heard about the fucking bounty. But I don’t give a shit about it if you’re going to stand there and tell me that I’m here because of some rebound after breaking my heart over Robert Fischer. Of course, everything with Robert was a big mistake. I wasn’t in my right mind. Now, it seems quite unlike anything I would do and if I could take it all back, I would do it in a heartbeat.” I took a deep breath. “But I can’t take it back, so I’m going to face the music.”

 

“Sit down,” he said and since that dangerous look was back in his eyes, I decided not to test his patience. I put the plate back on the table but I kept standing.

 

“It makes no sense for you to go back to Fischer on your own,” I was glad he had stopped with the whole aggravating ‘your Robert’ thing, “especially since you don’t have any idea what would have prompted him to place such a big bounty on your head. An unscrupulous mercenary would kill you if he thought it made you more compliant. Even a million is no joke.”

 

“I’ll tell them I am willing to go back to Fischer all quiet just so they keep me alive then,” I said sarcastically.

 

Eames didn’t even bother to respond to that. He either knew me well enough to know that I would never submit to such humiliation or he was still sour over this whole rebound thing he had imagined for himself. He had been holding me and kissing me when I’d told him I had hooked up with Robert and he was being a prat now that I told him that there was absolutely nothing between us anymore for the past couple of months? Fuck this shit.

 

“Cobb confirmed that Fischer is onto something but it has only to do with you, it doesn’t seem like he has still caught on to the inception,” he said instead. “Robert Fischer’s current train of investigation implies that he suspects you were working for Browning. He has gone cold on Cobb’s trail and hasn’t pursued it further.”

 

The world flipped over hundred and eighty degrees and my stomach churned at the mention of _him_. “Cobb?” I said and the word felt alien to my tongue like it never had before.

 

Eames looked at me. His back was to the fire but I was sitting close enough to notice the serious expression on his face.

 

“You need people on your side, Arthur. You cannot be stubborn about accepting Cobb’s help. You need people who won’t sell you out for a million – or twenty. Saito will fly in to London by tomorrow evening. He would want to hear your story personally, I believe.”

 

I turned away from Eames, my palms clammy just at the mere mention of Cobb. I should have asked about Saito and what else Eames had been up to while I slept the sleep of the dead for the past day. Instead, I said hotly, “I don’t need Cobb’s help!”

 

Eames stepped closer to me and turned me to face him. He took my hands in his and pried open my fist, a finger in turn as he looked at me. “Arthur, Fischer’s got it in for you, and we don’t know why. You knew, didn’t you, when you came to me, that you couldn’t face this on your own? Just because Cobb will be helping now, it doesn’t change the fact that you need help. Look at you, Arthur,” he squeezed my fingers and looked over me pointedly, “you looked ready to die when you got here. You scared me shitless. I was going crazy wondering what had happened to you, but thankfully, it turned out it is just some risky fucking around on your part. But you say that Fischer seemed mentally unstable. What if the only reason he wants you alive is so that he could kill you himself?”

 

“Then I will die,” I replied furiously, snatching my hands out of Eames’ grasp. “I’d rather die than accept Cobb’s help. I don’t need Cobb in my life. He is a self-centred, narcissistic bastard. You don’t understand anything about Cobb and me, Eames. Stay out of it.”

 

Eames took a few deep breaths. He was irritated but he had no idea what I felt. _He_ wasn’t the one who had risked years of his life for his best friend only to be abandoned without a word. He was getting peeved over stupid shit like maybe I had sought him as rebound after I was done with Crazy Rob. He had no fucking idea what I felt for him. He had no fucking idea what I felt for Dominick Cobb.

 

“Calm down, Arthur. If Cobb didn’t care for you, he won’t come out of his hiding, risking his life for you – his children’s lives...”

 

I could feel the rage coursing through every single vein, beating all civility and common sense out of my head.

 

“Well, you can tell _Cobb_ that I don’t need his help, that I don’t need him risking his children’s necks for someone he didn’t even give enough shit about to say goodbye. All my fucking life I followed him blindly, cared for him more than I ever cared for anyone, fucking went on the run with him...”

 

“It’s not his fault,” Eames cut me off harshly, his face twisted under the shadow over his face. He looked at me, eyes full of a distraught emotion I couldn’t place. I saw the pain – I could never miss the pain in his eyes. But there wasn’t just pain. There was a whole storm brewing in his darkening eyes. It took some heat off my own fury. “Cobb didn’t disappear like that because he wanted to,” said Eames slowly. “He did it because I convinced him that it was the best thing he could do for you. I made him believe that you would keep following his mad schemes unless he gave you a reason to stop doing so. If there was anything good he wanted to do for you, then that was leaving you alone – for good.”

 

I stared at Eames numbly. My body deflated. I felt dizzy. My brain couldn’t seem to process what he had just said.

 

“So if you have to blame anyone,” he continued, staring at me brokenheartedly, “then blame me. I promised to forge whatever he would need to go into hiding in return. As long as he left you alone, as long as he stopped screwing up your life, I’d make sure no one would be able to trace him down again. But that wasn’t important to him. What had really mattered to him was that he was doing you a good turn by leaving your life. But Cobb is not your culprit, Arthur.”

 

Eames’ gaze broke away from mine. It ripped my heart into pieces to see his eyes burdened with such guilt and pain. He stepped away from me as he put his face in his hands.

 

“Why?” I asked hoarsely after a while when I could trust myself to speak again. I stared at his hunched shoulders, his face buried his broad callused hand and felt heavy and defeated. “You... you should have known... how important Cobb is to me. I would rather risk Limbo than lose him...”

 

He made a strange strangled sound, half-laugh, half-agony. He raised his head to face me again, and he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. My body went cold with dread as I realised that his eyes were shining with tears. I couldn’t breathe, could barely register the words that followed.

 

“I kept telling myself I did it for you but it was a weak lie. Shouldn’t I have known? Yes, yes I knew, Arthur, I knew better than anyone else what Cobb meant to you. And so, that’s why...” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “He led you into a fate which would have been worse than death and still you looked at him as if he meant the world to you.”

 

Eames had his back to me now and I knew he had been unable to hold back the tears anymore. Everything he did not put into words, I heard it loud and clear. How foolish had I been – ignoring something that had always been there in capital letters, bold, underlined, italicised, in font size seventy-two. Afraid of the one thing that would save me, I had driven him to despair, rejecting him every time he put his heart out for me, even though I should have known – should have seen how strongly he felt for me, too. From the first moment, the first touch. He had never given up on me. Hell, he had made enemies with a giant corporation for me.

 

I couldn’t take the pain anymore. Nothing hurt worse than seeing Eames hurt like that. I couldn’t face this on my own and he shouldn’t have to, either. I went close to him, tugged at his shoulders till he faced me again and wrapped my arms around his head.

 

“If you saw that,” I whispered to him as he buried his face in my neck, clinging to me like a lost child finally come home and afraid to let go, “if you saw that, Victor Eames, didn’t you see that you meant so much more to me? That you meant more to me than anything else in the world, the universe? Everything. Everything is less compared to you, Eames. Didn’t you see how terribly, terribly I have always been in love with you? I love you, you gigantic idiot, only you. And it will take more than your petty jealousies to make me fall out of love with you. Come here,” I kissed his hair over and over as his tears stained my neck and bled through to my heart, “and never let go of me again.”

 

-

 

_There are a lot of things that Arthur doesn’t know about Eames._

_To begin with, the first time he had really met Eames wasn’t in Greece but in Los Angeles itself. Arthur had finally graduated from high school last year and now spent nearly all his time in Cobb’s office. Cobb had gone to Paris to meet Professor Miles but trusted Arthur with the keys to his office. Eames had learnt about the new model of PASIV that the military had approved but didn’t have access to it yet. However, he had learnt that a certain Dominick Cobb in UCLA’s Architecture Department was one of the few people who had access to it. So he had risked a trip to the US. Eames hadn’t been Eames at that time. He had been an ageing neurologist from Leeds School of Medicine, Professor Prescott Carter, which had been one of Eames’ more difficult impersonations hitherto since he didn’t just have to pretend he was a neuroscientist but also pretend that he was twenty-five years older than his actual age._

_Eames knew that Cobb would be away for Thanksgiving. So he decided that he would risk making a ‘trip’ to Cobb’s office then. However, he had no idea that Cobb hadn’t left his office unguarded. When Eames had reached Dom Cobb’s office, it wasn’t a locked door that he found but an obnoxious young brat who barely looked like he was fifteen but was dressed impeccably in a three piece suit and a dashing red tie._

_“Yes?” Arthur had looked up from the file he had been perusing and looked at Professor Carter from over the top of his reading glasses sternly. He was brazenly seated behind Cobb’s desk, his feet propped up on Cobb’s desk. It was the first time Cobb had entrusted Arthur with his office and Arthur moved around like he owned the place._

_“I had an appointment with Mr Cobb,” Eames had rasped out in the asthmatic voice he used as Professor Carter._

_Arthur had looked him over carelessly before turning back to his file. “That’s Professor Cobb to you, and since he is on vacation, I’m sure he wouldn’t have scheduled any appointments for this time,” he had declared condescendingly._

_“B-but,” wheezed Eames, holding out a letter towards Arthur, quite stumped by who this little brat was, “I have this letter...”_

_“Old man,” Arthur had said slowly, dropping his legs from the table and leaning forward to glare at Eames, “you aren’t the first who has come snooping around here when Professor Cobb is away.” He had smiled coldly at Eames. “Professor Cobb has no appointments. You can claim any mistake but the fact remains that you cannot meet Professor Cobb until he returns from his vacation.”_

Little minx _, Eames had thought to himself as he had looked into Arthur’s dark eyes, veiled by smugness and self-importance. It would get too hot for him in the USA if he stayed here for long otherwise he would have definitely stayed to teach this punk some manners._

_Later, Eames would learn that the boy was neither fifteen nor a nincompoop. He was Dom Cobb’s mysterious partner and protégé, as the rumours went. He was just known by his first name,_ Arthur _. Not that Eames ever ran into Arthur on the few jobs he pulled with Dom Cobb afterwards. Every time he met Dom and saw that Arthur wasn’t with him, he was strangely disappointed._

_But there had been something familiar about Arthur’s face. If Arthur had been a couple of years older when Eames first saw him, and if he had had his growth spurt, then Eames would have immediately noticed the resemblance between him and a certain US Army Corporal who had made his life difficult back in Kenya lately – Broderick Żmijewski._

_But as fate would have it, it wasn’t until many years later, when Eames had been snooping through Arthur’s drawers, that he discovered Arthur’s passport and was startled by the realisation that he bore the peculiar last name and a striking resemblance to the man who had almost sent him to the gallows. Fortunately, Eames had been able to outsmart Broderick Żmijewski. Arthur had no reason to suspect that Eames had been going through his things when he had found Eames waiting for him in his room later that night. He had no reason to think that Eames had any interest in him beyond the fact that Eames wanted to undress him and then show him such pleasure that his body would be ruined for any other man ever._

_Moreover, during their time in Greece, Arthur had tried to overpower Eames in bed by getting a little rough with him, tying his hands to the headboard, and trying to get Eames to open up his ass for him. However, nothing had seemed to work. It always seemed to him that Eames had the upper hand even if Arthur ordered him not to make a sound while he tied him up and tortured him. What Arthur doesn’t know is that Eames is actually terribly weak to him. He is most powerless against Arthur when Arthur lies spent next to him and has his fingers on Eames’ neck, stroking it absently as he looks into his eyes._

_“So that’s your name – Victor Eames,” Arthur had said as his fingers placed feather light caresses up and down Eames’ neck while he gazed up at him. “And how many people in the world call you that?”_

No one does _, Eames had thought. His first name was Victor but his last name wasn’t Eames. No one who knew him as Eames knew that Victor was his first name – well, no one except Arthur because Eames had wanted to hear that sweet passionate voice speak his name, his_ real _name. Every night he held Arthur, he urged him to drop the Eames and stick with Victor. Victor was the only real part of his name. There were some people who might still recognise him as Victor Louis de Montfort but Eames was just one of his many aliases._

_“Just you,” Eames had replied honestly, not having the heart to sully that blissful happiness Arthur radiated because he had ‘discovered’ Eames’ real name. “You’re the only one who calls me that.”_

_Arthur had blushed harder although he hadn’t been convinced. “That’s impossible. If it’s your real name, then anyone can find it if they dig hard enough,” he had replied even though he couldn’t help being pleased by Eames’ words. “You’re such a sweet talker. I bet you say that to everyone who knows you’re Victor Eames,_ Vicki _. Don’t tell me the person who gifted you that horrendous shirt doesn’t know you’re_ Victor _.”_

_Eames had only smiled in reply. What did it matter if it was his real name or not? Only Arthur would ever call him “Victor Eames” and if Arthur wanted that to be his real name, then he would enrol a deed poll and change his name to that. He could sense the generations upon generations of de Montfort’s spinning in their graves but damn them all. If that was what he needed to do to make sure that Arthur would keep smiling at him like that, then he would._

_Arthur has no idea how much he means to Eames._

_Eames had been so_ certain _that he would get Arthur to quit being Cobb’s sidekick and come be with him instead. Even if Arthur had given him less than a fortnight to seduce himself, Eames had been confident – overconfident. He hadn’t always been asleep when Arthur had lain next to him on early mornings, caressing his face, his body with fingers and kisses. Arthur was still too young. Young men aren’t the models of loyalty._

_But Arthur had surprised him by sticking to Cobb._

_Eames had never quite got over how much that had hurt. It had bruised his massive ego, of course but it had hurt parts of him he never knew could be hurt by a young_ boy _who wore his suits too proper and had no imagination whatsoever. His obsession with details and information bordered mental disorder and okay, he had the most beautiful pair of dimples a guy – or girl – ever had. But surely, it would take more than dimples and cocky, smug gazes and birthmarks on a slim hip and feathery touches to his throat to bring the experienced man-of-the-world Eames to his knees._

_Apparently not._

_If Arthur thought it was hell to stay away from Eames, he had no idea how much worse it was for Eames, who kept his distance because he had no other choice; and live with the realisation that no matter how Arthur’s eyes sparkled with adoration when he looked at Eames, he would still stubbornly choose another_ straight _man over him because he was his mentor or father figure or whatever Cobb was to Arthur. Maybe Eames had gotten it all wrong. Maybe Arthur liked Eames but Cobb was the one he really wanted because even years later, when Cobb is no more than a petty criminal, Arthur is still by his side being a petty criminal himself when he could be so much more._

_Arthur is probably like Eames – it doesn’t matter how Arthur rejects or pushes him away, Eames is still helplessly in love with Arthur._

_When Eames thinks of how Arthur feels for Cobb what Eames feels for Arthur, it drives him to the brink of madness. The only thing that saves him is the memory of Arthur holding him like he means the world to him, Arthur crying over him in a frigging dream because Eames is hurt and bleeding, Arthur kissing his lips when he thinks Eames is asleep and asking him if it is as hard for Eames to believe that is reality and not just a beautiful dream._

_If he cannot have Arthur, then he doesn’t want Cobb to have Arthur either. He really believes that he did Arthur a good turn in the beginning, but then Eames has always been a good actor because he believes his own lies. At least, Arthur is safe, he tells himself and then his soul scorns him – Arthur would rather be with Cobb than be safe, it sneers at him._

_And then his life turns into a nightmare when he hears about the bounty on Arthur’s head._

_Arthur doesn’t know that the real reason Eames wasn’t questioning his story wasn’t because he trusted him blindly. Eames was a seasoned criminal who didn’t even trust his own shadow. No, the actual reason for his easy belief in Arthur’s bizarre “_ Robert Fischer put a price on my head _” story was the fact that he had known from certain mercenaries beforehand that Fischer-Morrow had put a price on a certain Dream share worker, Arthur’s, head. It was a crazy bounty. These mercenaries also knew that this Arthur worked with Dom Cobb who was a “friend” of Eames’ – the same friend who had risked his neck coming to visit Eames in Mombasa. Eames owed this particular group of mercenaries big time since they were all that stood between him and Cobol Engineering now. So he had been recruited to find and kidnap this ‘Arthur’ and get the bounty on him, preferably alive._

_Eames had never known fear like he had for the few days when he had been preparing to leave for Los Angeles, Arthur’s last confirmed location. He would have given anything, done anything just to make sure that he got to Arthur first and found a way to keep him alive. No, he just needed to get to Arthur and then he would certainly, one hundred percent keep him alive. Eames was worried sick about Arthur. He was worth way too much even dead and knowing Arthur, Eames knew he won’t let himself be picked up alive. He was a good kid, Arthur was, but he was much too strong headed for his own good sometimes. Eames had never felt so sick in his entire life._

_If someone got to Arthur before him... Eames couldn’t breathe when he thought of that so he summoned all his courage and for the first time in his life, he prayed, prayed hard with every fibre of his sinner self that Arthur be okay._

_And on the eve of the day when Eames was to leave for Los Angeles, Arthur had shown up at his door._

_Eames’ heart had almost stopped from the shock of it._

_It had nothing to do with the fact that this made his job easy for the mercenaries – he had to think about it, too, but that would come later. No, all he could think about was how Arthur was okay, how there must really be some sort of higher power because his prayers had been answered. The relief he felt when Arthur walked into his apartment was enormous. Oh, he had been soaked to his bones and looked anorexic enough to warrant psychiatric counsel but he was here, with Eames, where Eames could take care of him. London was Eames’ territory. No one would touch even a hair on Arthur’s head without Eames’ permission._

_If Eames had ever thought that distance and time would ease and wear away the feelings he had for Arthur Żmijewski, then he hasn’t been more wrong. Eames still loved Arthur more than he had ever loved anyone in his life and wanted him as passionately as before, if not more. The time when he had feared something had happened to Arthur had been the worst in his entire life – including the time he had spent crossing a dangerous track across Sierra Leone with a crazy gunrunner during the time of the country’s civil war._

_He wore his masks well, though, because Arthur had no idea he had just come seeking help from one of the ‘mercenaries’ who was supposed to be tracking him down and getting the bounty on his head. Arthur didn’t just look emaciated – he seemed broken on the inside and more vulnerable than Eames had ever seen him. There was no arrogant smugness in his eyes anymore. He had no cocky smirks for Eames – only helpless little smiles when Eames so much as touched his hand. Eames had always known that Arthur wasn’t as normal as he pretended to be but he didn’t know it was possible that things could break him this much. When he laid trembling and shivering in Eames’ bed, Eames swore to himself that he would protect Arthur from anything and everything – even himself._

_Arthur would never know the wild pangs of jealousy Eames had felt when he imagined him in the arms of Robert Fischer. Of course, Arthur was a grown man and Eames knew firsthand how intense he was in bed, how he could fool any unsuspecting bloke into falling for him. Arthur wouldn’t meet his eyes when he told him about Fischer and he would space out at times and Eames knew he wasn’t telling him the whole truth about whatever he had with Fischer. Not that Eames wanted to know but it fanned his insecure jealousy. Eames won’t show that, though. Arthur was fucking alive and Eames could still hold him like this and feel his heart beat under his hand._

_When Eames sees the angry hurt flare up at the mention of Cobb, he realises that his actions have resulted in damaging Arthur as well. Of course, he had known that Arthur would be hurt by Cobb’s betrayal (as he calls it), but he didn’t know it would get this bad. For a man who prided himself on his imagination, Eames has surely fallen short of the mark when he had ruined things for Arthur._

_He doesn’t even deserve the absolution Arthur grants him when he holds him and kisses away his tears and says the words that Eames had never thought he would hear._

_But he takes it because Arthur wants him more than anything else in the world._

_It isn’t so easy for Eames, though, because Eames, well, Eames will only truly forgive himself when he makes sure that Arthur is safe again – this time for real._

_There are certainly a lot of things Arthur doesn’t know about Eames. Then again, he hasn’t given Eames a chance to tell him about those. Eames is a very private man, though, so whether or not Arthur would have learnt these things even if he hadn’t rejected Eames time and again is a moot point._

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a prologue but then it became a mini-story of its own. However, this is only 1 of 4 parts and an 'introduction' of sorts to the rest of the story. The first draft is finished. I will update it as I finished proofreading each part. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. I want to be sorry that this is so long but really, I am not so repentant because I'd been aiming for a detailed, developing story.


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